


With my toes on the edge, it's such a lovely view

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Academic Stiles, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Anthropology, Blacksmith Derek, Epilepsy Warning, Fanart, Historical, Homosexuality in the 18th Century, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Offscreen Animal Mutilation, Past Drug Addiction, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Derek, Pirates, Slavery, Slow Build, Swords, West Indies, abolitionists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Governor Stilinski's son returns home after years spent away at Oxford, while Derek's just trying to find a reason to live after his betrothed murdered his family.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles is an academic vying for recognition, Derek is a blacksmith striving to carry on his family's legacy, and they bond over swords in 18th century Kingston, Jamaica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really a pirate AU, but pirates are definitely involved. This fic is an amalgamation of themes within Master and Commander, the Cat Royal series, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Cosmo Jarvis' Gay Pirates. And it's my baby.  
> Title from Queens of the Stone Age's I Appear Missing  
> Rating will change to explicit in future  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit on 06/20/2016: I've made some substantial edits to the first three chapters, and I'm currently working on the fourth.

"Derek, could you come out to the front for a minute?"  Derek barely hears his uncle, Peter, call for him over the roar of the furnace.  He's in the process of shaping an officer's sword for a member of Governor Stilinski's guard.  The officer received a promotion, and treated himself by commissioning a sword.  The whole of Kingston knows the Hale family produces the finest steel in the West Indies.  Even though most of the Hale family is dead. 

It is just uncle Peter and him now.  After the fire, Peter apprenticed Derek the best he could with his lame hand, a casualty of the fire.  He'd taught Derek how to pound away at a blank of steel, shaping it into something beautiful, and the forge steadily resumed producing the quality of weapons unseen since the Hale fire ten years past. 

"Coming!" Derek makes sure everything is in its proper place, wiping his hands and face of sweat and soot before opening the curtain leading to the front of the shop.  He supposes a customer wants to speak to him personally about an order, instead of relying on Peter to communicate what they desire.  Peter hardly ever disturbs Derek when he works, except when it is important.  He tries to make himself look as presentable as possible, making sure his dirty shirt is at least tucked in and all the soot wiped from his face.

Peter waits for him at the front.  But with nary a customer in sight, Derek raises his brow.  Peter lifts his hands, placating.  "It seems the governor's son is back early, I need you to take the sword he ordered to the west docks."

"I'm working, Peter.  Why can't you do it, or Isaac?"  Derek crosses his arms in frustration, he hasn't run a delivery errand since the days he was an apprentice.

"See, I would Derek, but if you remember I was supposed to go down to the barracks to take lock measurements for the holdings.  Isaac is delivering horseshoes to the Whittemore plantation."  Peter says with a twist of his mouth.  They don't enjoy fulfilling Whittemore's orders, the man kills more slaves than any plantation owner in Kingston.  But they do enjoy raising the price of horseshoes thrice over, just for him. 

"Not all of our livelihood relies on your fine steel."  Peter points to a package wrapped in canvas.  "Find McCall at the docks, he knows which vessel the boy is arriving in.  Stilinski is apparently a connoisseur of swords, McCall said he would probably like to meet you."

"He wants me to give it to him myself?"  Derek is not dressed to give the governor's Oxford educated son a sword.   Derek looks down at his soot covered clothes.  He's not dressed to present anyone with a sword.  He can't even remember the last time he bathed.

Peter snorts, "Here's hoping you do not chase off all future business with your deplorable stench."

Which is how Derek finds himself running through the streets of Kingston, clutching a wrapped sword to his chest, trying unsuccessfully not to plough through the many finely dressed people on the streets.  Quite a few og them hold their noses shut as he runs by.  Derek cannot blame them.

When he reaches the west side docks, he spots McCall by the harbour master's quarters speaking to a couple.  A blond man, and a woman with strawberry blonde hair quiet as he approaches, but Derek doesn't care, they can gossip as much as they desire.  He simply wants to get the delivery out of the way so he can get back to his work.

McCall greets him with a smile that slowly turns strained the closer Derek comes, nose twitching.  "Mr. Hale, I'm so glad you're here."  He turns to the couple.  "This is Mister Jackson Whittemore, and the lady is Miss Lydia Martin."  They nod at him.  "They are friends of Stiles.  Miss Martin paid for the sword."

Derek wonders what exactly a Styles is, but it is out of his place to ask.  Instead he bows to the lady.  "I appreciate your business, my lady." 

She smiles genuinely at Derek.  "My betrothed loves well made swords, and has quite the collection.  I'm sure your piece will be placed among his many.  Stiles will enjoy conversing with you."  She turns towards Mr. Whittemore, "Come Jackson, I wish to speak to the harbour master before Stiles arrives.  McCall, Hale, we will see you at docking."

Derek lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding as they leave.  Fine gentlemen and ladies gave him indigestion.  He wouldn't know how to react if the Stilinski boy actually wanted to talk shop with him.  Derek would probably just shake his head until the boy tired of his silence and dismissed him.

McCall turns to him, a wide smile plastered on.  "I'm so glad Stiles is coming back, I haven't seen him since we were boys.  I cannot wait for him to meet Allison." 

At that, Derek freezes.  Allison Argent.  Everyone in Kingston knows of the frowned upon romance between Scott McCall, the fatherless son of a maid, and Allison Argent, the only child of Kingston's top barrister.  Her father does not approve, but he gives his daughter anything and everything she could possibly want.  He denies her nothing because of the sins his sister committed. 

Even thinking of that woman makes him sick to his stomach.

Derek does not like, nor does he trust the Argents.  McCall does not seem aware of this, because he continues to wax poetry about the Argent girl's fine black hair and porcelain skin.  Only trailing off when he notices the poisonous scowl on Derek's face.  He apparently just remembers the history between the two families, and Derek notices the pity settle on his face.

Derek is saved from McCall's stammering apologies with the ring of the harbour bell.  He turns to the water, as Stilinski's brig-sloop emerges from behind the headland, sailing into the bay.  McCall grins, apology quickly forgotten, and pushes past Derek, scuttling to the forefront, helping the deck hands set up for docking.  Derek stands forgotten in the shade, twiddling his thumbs and aching to return to the shop, the half finished sword calling his name.

When the dinghy bringing the passengers from the ship reaches the shore, Derek takes that as his cue to get the whole debacle over with.

Martin and Whittmore approach a slave climbing gracefully out of the dinghy.  No, not a slave.  The man wears the clothes of a manservant.  He probably serves under Stilinski.  The Stilinski family's crest that is carved into the sword Derek holds is stitched into the sleeve of his jacket. 

What kind of wealthy boy hires an African for the esteemed role of a companion?  In Kingston the highest position a freed slave can obtain is on a naval ship, if they are lucky.  It is difficult for a freed slave to be employed with the rising influx of immigrants from England.

Slavery is a disgusting business, it rips men and women away from their families, pulling them across the vast ocean, forced into thankless work.  If a person is willing to work right and proper, they should be paid to do so.  Obviously, many do not agree with his sentiment as the sugar and cotton plantations running the economy demonstrate.  Perhaps perspectives are different in England, where the economy doesn't rely solely on profits made off the unpaid pain of good men and women.

He notices Martin waving for him, so he brings his package forward, barely noticing the boy standing beside the manservant.  He assumes this to be Stilinski by the familiarity with which the Martin girl, his betrothed, gently touches his face.  But as Derek nears, he realizes the boy is not actually a boy.  He looks to be in his early twenties, with a messy mop of brown hair, uncombed and unwashed, and a scraggly beard.  He is about Derek's height, except while Derek is muscular, Stilinski is lean.

His clothes are reminiscent of Derek's own messy garments, but instead of soot, his off white shirt is covered in ink stains that flow from his rolled sleeves to his arms and hands.  He looks like a pauper next to his finely put together manservant.  He is even filthier than Derek, at least Derek bothered to comb his hair this morning.    

Stilinski notices him and looks towards him until Derek finally sees his eyes.  They burn the colour of the golden rum Derek's mother loved to drink.  There is strength and determination in them.  He has the eyes of a man gone through hell, only to emerge from the other side of the flames.  It's a strength he sees in Peter every time he struggles to do things that used to come so easy before the fire rendered his right arm lame.  It's charismatic and beautiful, and Derek knows wants to meet this person.

Stilinski smiles at him.  "Hello, I'm Stiles.  You must be Mr. Hale, Lydia's been telling me about the sword she ordered from you."  He makes wiggles his fingers at Derek, wordlessly asking for the sword.

So then that is a _Stiles_.  It must be a nickname, because Derek saw a Genim Stilinski on the order.  He hands over the canvas wrapped blade.

Stilinski's smile grows as he undoes the hemp bindings, unwrapping the sword in front of him to Derek's surprise.  He expected him to wait until he reached his father's house.  If this man is as well versed in swordsmanship as everyone claims, he will probably want to discuss Derek's craftsmanship, this makes him nervous.

The canvas drops to Stilinski's feet, and he pulls the blade from the scabbard, hissing in wonder when the steel is revealed, shining in the hot Kingston sun.

"She's beautiful."  Stilinski gasps.  He cradles the gothic style gold hilt, twisting the blade in the light, looking for flaws and obviously finding none by the way he continues to grin.  He laughs at the fox body Derek formed from gold on the pommel, echoing the one stamped into the blade:  the Stilinski fox.  It wasn't requested on the order form, but Derek had taken creative license with the extra money given when the blade was commissioned.  

Stilinski turns the full power of his smile to Derek, his eyes catching the light of the midday sun, making them glow even brighter.  Something heavy catches in Derek's throat but he quickly swallows it down.

"My good man, I've commissioned blades from all over Europe, but this is one of the best pieces of steel I have ever had my hands on." Stilinski places his finger under the point, testing for balance.  "She's weighted perfectly."  A light enters into his eyes and a mischievous looks takes over his expression.  "Mr. Hale, you must see my collection, I have this beautiful Muramasa katana given to me by a friend from Edo, your practice will surely benefit."

Derek is overwhelmed to say the least.  How can the governor's son invite a lowly blacksmith into his father's home to look at foreign swords?  It is ridiculous.  He has absolutely no idea of what to say or do with that offer, so Derek does nothing. 

Eventually the decision is made for him, as the Martin girl plucks the sword from Stilinski's hand, and skillfully sheaths it into the scabbard, placing it into the manservant's hands, addressing him she says.  "Thank you Boyd."

Boyd, the manservant, breaks his stoic form, smiling fondly at Martin.  Nodding his head at Stilinski, he walks towards another dinghy bringing in what Derek assumes is Stilinski's belongings.

"Mr. Hale."  Lydia turns to him.  "I would love for you to take Stiles' offer to visit our house.  Now that he's returned, he could use the companionship."  She reaches and touches his dirty arm.  "Thank you for delivering the sword personally, but I'm sure Stiles has stroked your ego enough for one day." 

Stilinski blushes, blood rising fast to his face even as Martin continues.  "Please call within the month, or whenever you aren't too busy."

Derek bows.  "I am grateful, Miss Martin, Mr. Stilinski, for your patronage."

Stilinski grins, his tanned face blossoming red like a rose.  "Please call me Stiles."

Derek blinks, surprised at the familiarity.

"Or Mr. Stilinski's fine."  Stilinski blushes even harder.

Before Derek leaves he sees Stilinski lean in and cradle his hand to Martin's face pressing a kiss to her cheek.  "Thank you so much, Lyds."

She removes her glove and pats the hand on her cheek.  "You are very welcome, Stiles."

Something foreign and sharp runs through his chest and Derek finds himself looking away at the easy way Stilinski shares space with his betrothed.

***

Derek finishes the officer's sword over the next two weeks.  At the start of the third week, he walks through the most fashionable district in town, where all the plantation owners and wealthy citizens own town homes.  He feels dreadfully out of place in his plain starched collar and black trousers, compared to the finer gentlemen dressed in their embroidered waistcoats with powdered hair. 

Derek wonders if the invitation to the governor's home was simply a formality.  He looks incongruous, out of place, he knows he doesn't belong.  But he wants to see the swords Stilinski offered to show him.  Derek has only ever held blades made in Jamaica, seeing others from around the world will be an experience.

The governor's house is the largest in the district, but also the least extravagant, with fewer moldings and decorative features.  Derek is happily greeted at the door by a blonde maid, meaning the invitation is thankfully still standing.  She directs him up a simple staircase to the second floor where Stilinski's quarters are located.

Derek knocks on the door pointed out to him, opening it when he hears a soft, "Come in".

He takes in the study revealed to him, surprised at the mess.  There are papers pinned to plaster walls, and books scattered on every surface, in fact the only empty space is the ceiling.  Derek looks to the desk, and there Stilinski sits, bent over another book, scribbling fast on a sheet of heavy paper to the side.  He wears nothing but trousers, his tanned back, covered in thin white scars, open for the world to see.  The room feels private, like he shouldn't be here, watching this scene.  Those white scars echo the ones striped along his apprentice Isaac's back, a result of a father too enthusiastic with the rod.

Derek clears his throat.

"Oh, Boyd, why are you just standing there, come help me translate this damned passage, you know very well how the French language disables me."  Stilinski sighs, scribbling even harder on the paper. "Why'd you knock anyway?  I mean, who does that anymore?"  Stiles finishes his rant, throwing his quill to the side in frustration before whirling around to see Derek standing awkwardly in the door way.

Stilinski startles, turning back to his work before double taking when he realizes that Derek is not his manservant.

"I'm sorry, you're busy, I should go."  Derek quickly spews out in embarrassment.

"Wait!"  Stilinski calls as he pulls on the shirt draped over the back of the chair, leaving the front untied so it gapes open.

Stilinski notices him looking at the obviously undone shirt, and shrugs sheepishly.  "I'm sorry, but modesty can wait until I get used to the stagnant housebound air.  It's so different from the breeze on the deck of a ship."  He fans his hands over his tanned face.  "I'm telling you.  You have never felt cold before until you've sailed through the Drake Passage in a storm.  I honestly miss it, I do prefer the cold."

"It's fine, Mr. Stilinski, it's your house.  Besides I often feel the same during a breezeless day in my forge."  Derek says still standing awkwardly in the entryway.

Stilinski sighs.  "It's my father's house, not mine, and I should have manners for his sake, but it's too damned hot for decency."  He fluffs his shirt, airing it.  "And I insist that you call me Stiles, Mr. Stilinski makes me feel like I'm back at Oxford, and heaven knows I've had enough of those pretentious cocks."

Derek chokes on his own spit.  He's never heard a wealthy man speak in such a manner.  Peter swears constantly, but his uncle has no book learning education to teach him better, and neither does Derek.  The two of them only know how to read at the most basic level in order to keep track of records and orders. 

Once again Derek is quiet for too long and Stilinski rescinds his offer. "It's fine if you are uncomfortable calling me Stiles, but I do hope we can become good friends."  He sends a small smile to Derek.  "Even if I have the filthy mouth of a sailor."

Derek smiles faintly in amusement even as Stilinski grins.

"You said you have a sword to show me?"  Derek asks.

"Do I ever!"  Stilinski rushes to him and grabs him by the arm, pulling him further into the study to an adjoining room.  This one is slightly cleaner than the study, but instead of being cloaked in paper, the walls are covered in edged weapons from around the world.

Derek stares in wonder.  Stilinski drops his arm, and walks over to an innocuous curved tube-like stick of wood, picking it up gently, bringing it to Derek.  Putting a hand on Derek's chest, he forces him to stand back, as he bends his knees and pulls the sword from its scabbard in one fluid, short movement.  It doesn't look like a sword at first glance, the scabbard is nondescript and plain, but when he studies the blade in Stilinski's hand, he sees the craftsmanship behind it.

Stilinski places the guardless hilt in Derek's hand.  The steel is beautiful and well made.  Derek cannot see why Stiles is so impressed with his sword, this one is perfection compared to his, it is much better balanced and the metal has beautiful swirling patterns like the sheets of mica Derek sometimes uses for inlay on sheaths.

"I have some books on Japanese swordsmithing, if you'd like to read them?"  Stilinski asks, interrupting his silent reverie of the blade.

Derek frowns, "I won't be able to read them very well."  He grudgingly admits.

Stilinski rolls his eyes. "I don't expect you to." 

His casual words anger Derek.  He can't believe he expected this man to be sensitive to the plight of those less fortunate than him, he's stuck up and snotty, through and through.

Stilinski quickly understands his mistake because he corrects himself, eyes widening.  "I just meant they're in Japanese."  He rushes to say.  "It would be amazing if you knew how to read kanji.  I can read and transcribe the technical language for you, but the woodcuts are useful to look at for technique."

Derek is flabbergasted.  Why would someone he barely knows do this for him?  And a man of higher financial and social status at that.  The only people who care for Derek are his family.  People unrelated to him are unkind and have never done anything for him, unless they expect something in return.  What does Stilinski want from him?  Does he want another sword?  Maybe a blade made using the knowledge Derek would gain from the books?

"So what do you say?"  Stilinski asks like he already knows Derek's answer.

Derek wants.  He wants to learn to make a sword like this.  He's always been a perfectionist, and it would be an incredible opportunity to improve his swordsmithing, regardless of what Stilinski wants in return.

Derek gives his answer.  "Yes."

"Brilliant."

***

Peter teases him constantly about his newfound friendship with Stiles.  Constantly asking Derek if he will remember him when he rises high above them in status.  It's all good natured, but it gets tiresome after a while, especially when he goads Derek's apprentice, Isaac, into teasing him too.  Luckily it takes only a few well placed scowls for Isaac to clam right up.  Peter is much more difficult to dissuade.

"I've heard the Stilinski boy adores fried potatoes, you should take him some.  Maybe then he'll let you look at his pretty books and pretty maids."  Peter waggles his eyebrows, sitting behind the counter of the shop.

"Fuck off, I've got work to do."  Derek grabs a stack of accounts, looking through them, sighing when he sees nothing but orders for horseshoes and nails.

"Maybe you can convince him to talk to his father about lowering our taxes on imported steel, coal for the furnace is expensive after all, and pig iron is a travesty."

Peter loves being a sarcastic shit.  Back when he had full control of all his appendages, he used to roughhouse Derek and his siblings, being only ten years older than Derek.  It seems that now he relies fully on his wit to fuck with everyone.  Derek is tempted to tell Peter that according to Stiles' books it's possible to make magnificent blades with brittle pig iron, but he guesses that would only prove Peter's point.

Derek places the accounts back on the counter.  He usually has Isaac make the smaller orders, getting him used to casting steel in the forge.  Derek loves a challenge, but when no one wants to cough up the money for a new weapon, he is stuck doing repairs on old blades.  If he's lucky.

"Can you ask Isaac to handle these?"  He points to the stack.

Peter scoffs at him.  "What?  Too good to make nails, Derek?"

Derek rolls his eyes.  "Yes, too good to make nails."

"Fair enough, I always did hate making the tiny bastards, so monotonous, so droll, but then anything's better than being a damned bookkeeper."  He sighs, staring off past Derek.  "Maybe I should join the navy."

"With a lame arm?"  Derek scoffs,  "Good luck."  Peter hates the navy, and always complains about privateers commandeering their supply shipments.  He would never willingly join them.

"What about the pirate everyone's talking about?  Deucalion?  He's blind, there can't be anything worse than a blind pirate running a fleet.  If I was in the navy, he would already be hanging by the neck."  Peter gathers the orders and places them in a drawer to give to Isaac when he arrives.

"Please.  Everyone and their mother knows that's just a story spread by over-enthusiastic sailors.  It's not possible to command a ship blind."  Derek pats Peter on the shoulder.  "Besides it's not like you'll be the Captain, if anything you'll be the cook.  You do make brilliant ackee and saltfish." 

Peter presses his good hand over his heart, sarcasm radiating from his pores.  "I'm wounded, Derek.  Ye of such little faith.  I would be a magnificent sailor, and not just because of my skills in the kitchen."  He winks.

The bell over the door rings, announcing a customer.  "Better get back to your book keeping, Peter.  Can't have us starving to death because of your hopes and aspirations."

"Funny, nephew, funny."  Peter turns to the customer standing uncomfortably by the door.  "Don't be shy, good sir, the Hale family is the finest supplier of nails this side of the West Indies.  Regardless of our blacksmith's misplaced pride."  The customer stands, if possible, even more awkwardly.  

"Don't go frightening off the customers, Peter."  Derek chastises.

His uncle makes shooing movements with his hands, as he gets up to properly greet the customer.  Derek pushes past the curtain separating the store from the forge.  If it was hot in the front, it is even hotter in the back.  Kingston is atrocious before hurricane season.  Before the rains come everything is a humid sticky mess for weeks.

Salt also seems cake everything, covering equipment in layers upon layers.  If Derek leaves the main forge gate open to let the slightest breeze flit its way inside, he'll come back to find his anvil covered in a thin white layer of salt.  It is counterproductive, to say the least, when he spends the better part of a day scraping salt off of his workspace, instead of filling orders. 

It's a casualty of owning a forge right by the seafront, but there couldn't be better place for the new Hale forge than right over the bones of the last one.  When he and Peter rebuilt the building, they remained true to the original plan.  Sometimes Derek thinks he can hear Laura's voice carried on the breeze from the kitchen.  Cora babbling baby talk and playing with her dolls, a constant tripping hazard around the workshop.  His father holding steel to the anvil with long tongs while Peter brings the heavy hammer down onto glowing metal.  The dull thump of shaping steel, the only thing to be heard over the roar of the furnace.

He misses his family with a heavy ache in his heart.

On his next free day, Derek walks to the cemetery, carrying a large bunch of roses of sharon.  His mother's favourite.

Derek expects it to be empty.  The day is hot and humid, and yet a figure is over by the wealthier side of the cemetery.  It's Stilinski and he's wearing the nicest clothes Derek has ever seen him in, unfortunately he's also lying on the dirt ground.  He truly is a strange man.

Derek places the flowers in front of the large marker with all his family's names carved onto it.  The granite sparkles in the sun, as Derek runs his fingers along  _Talia Hale, Beloved Mother and Wife._ He settles and leans against the royal palm growing beside the grave.

A throat clears from behind him, and he looks over his shoulder to see Stilinski standing a foot away, nervously shifting.  "You should talk to them, it helps."  He says as his hands lightly brush the soft dirt clinging to the front of his waistcoat.

Derek nods his head slowly, and Stilinski walks away, back to the other side of the cemetery, lying down in the dirt again, his hands touching the flowers placed on the grave in front of him.  Derek watches him for a minute before turning back to his family.

"Hi Papa."  Derek's throat catches.  "I miss you."  He leans closer to the grave.  "Laura, and you too Cora, you monkey."  Derek reaches out and grips the stone.  " Mama, do know what your idiot of a brother told me today?  He wants to be a sailor.  Can you believe that?"

After what feels like hours crouched in front of the grave, Derek wanders over to Stilinski.  He's still lying flat on the ground, shifted onto his back so he's staring up into the many white clouds floating by in the breeze.  The hot sun beats uninterrupted onto his face, until Derek leans over him, blocking the light.  He blinked up at Derek, surprise evident on his face.

"Hey."  Derek says.

"Hey, big guy."  Stilinski pats the ground beside him, and Derek settles, plopping down onto the hard pressed dirt.

"Who are you here to see?"  He asks, squinting his eyes at the grave marker, seeing  _Claudia Stilinski_ carved into it.

"My mother."  He pats the stone.  "She died when I was eight during the malaria outbreak of '78.  It's the reason my father sent me to England."  Derek remembers that, the year that many rich Kingston youth were packed onto ships and sent off before the rains arrived and the disease spread unhindered. "Is that what happened to yours?"  Stilinski nods in the direction of the Hale plot.

Derek shakes his head.  "No."  His family died two years after the outbreak.

"Okay."  Stilinski nods, but doesn't question him further.

"Do you come by often?"  Derek asks.

"No, it's my first time here since I arrived back in Kingston, and I never visited my mother before I left.  I haven't come here since my grandmother passed when I was a baby."  He sighs, smiling up at the clouds.  "It's beautiful, peaceful even, considering it's a graveyard."

"Yeah, it is."

Eventually Derek lies beside Stilinski, and watches the clouds go by with him.  The only sounds to be heard for miles around are the far away drum of waves and the rustle of palm branches moving with the wind.

Stilinski is the first to break the silence.  "Since we've officially bonded in our shared pain, will you now call me Stiles?"

"What if I call you Genim instead?"  Derek jokes, smiling when he sees Stilinski sporting a face like he's sucking on a lemon.

"Urg, I'd rather you call me potato than Genim."

Derek bites out a laugh.  "It's not that unfortunate of a name."

"It's not about how it sounds, it's about who I'm named after."  Stilinski shudders.  "Genim Stilinski, my mother's father, is a horrid man.  My name happens to be a testament to the strength of his ego.  One of the stipulations for my parents marriage was that their first born had to be named after him."

"Your father is a governor, that's not a bad position to marry into."

"My mother was a noble, and nobles marry other nobles.  It's only a desperate man who marries his family into the mercantile class, and it's practically unheard of for nobles to marry politicians."  Stilinski sighs.  "I lived with dear old grandpapa for years while I studied at Eton's.  Leaving Berkshire and him, and moving to study at Oxford was the happiest day of my life.  There has never been a more crotchety old man."

Derek's mouth shapes into a grin.  "Okay fine, I'll call you Stiles, so long as you call me Derek."

Stiles shoots up, grabbing Derek's hand, and shaking it vigorously.  "You have yourself a deal, Derek."

***

Derek would be liar if he denied Stiles the status of best friend.  He works his way into Derek's life, becoming a major part of it.  The weeks following their meeting in the cemetery are a few of Derek's best since the fire.  Stiles makes good on his promise to translate the Japanese books for him, creating an easy to understand syntax Derek at his most basic reading level can comprehend.

Stiles also allows Derek to take the books home with him.  More often than not, Derek can find Peter sitting at the counter fully absorbed.  His head bent over the books and Stiles' notes trying so very hard to understand them, only getting up to reluctantly help customers.

Derek learns techniques he uses to strengthen brittle blades during repair jobs, and new methods with which to form good, strong blades from cheaper, more readily available iron.  Derek is especially in love with pattern welding which produces the beautiful Damascus steel swirls he's seen on the Muramasa katana and a few of the Eastern scimitars in Stiles' sword room.

His craftsmanship improves significantly, and within a few short months he finds himself getting three or more weapon orders a month, where before, he would only get one every few months.

Eventually, the forge becomes backed up with orders so Derek promotes Isaac to full time, forging nails and horseshoes, pleasing the boy to no end since it allots him much more spending money and time away from his drunkard father.

Stiles comes by to visit him often, either sitting in the front of the shop with Peter while Derek works in the back, or by a chair Derek sets up by the gate, reading books.  Over time Derek stops putting the chair back in the loft after Stiles leaves.  It becomes a permanent feature in the shop, along with Stiles.

Sometimes, Boyd often Stiles, and Derek learns the African is much more than a manservant.  He is Stiles' academic partner, helping him with translations of manuscripts and books.  It's through him that Derek finally discovers what Stiles does.

"He's a sociocultural anthropologist."  Boyd answers after Derek poses the question.

"What on earth does that mean?"

Boyd sighs.  "It means he will never be fully recognized by any university.  Academics scoff at his research, claiming it is useless to modern society.  Only a few more progressive thinkers support him, but they are in no position of power to help get his work recognized.  His youth sure as hell does not help with this endeavor."

While that doesn't answer Derek's question, it does spread some light to why Stiles is in the colonies when he should be back in England.  He's an academic pariah, and only a few people take him seriously.  Still, Stiles continues to write, persevering in his futile endeavor.  It's something Derek admires so strongly about him.

When Derek ventures to ask Stiles about his research, he goes out on a tangent, spewing information he expects Derek to understand.  When he finishes, the only thing Derek takes away from the one-sided conversation is that there are tribes of people in the New Guinea Massim archipelago who gift each other jewelry. 

Derek learns not to ask about Stiles' research.

After days of overworking himself, Peter kicks Derek out of the shop.  Telling him to take a day off, when he catches him asleep on his anvil.  Naturally, instead of going upstairs to sleep, Derek makes his way over to the governor's home.     

McCall answers the door with a smile.  "Come in, Derek.  A bunch of us are out in the courtyard, join us for tea?"  He waves Derek into the house, leading him to the kitchen where he proceeds to pile Derek's arms full of trays containing pots, small cups, plates, and food.  Pointing him to the French doors spilling out into the yard.

He spots a large round table set up beneath an umbrella protecting the people under it from the beating sun.   Stiles and Boyd gather under, as well as Lydia and Jackson who convinced him weeks earlier not to address them by their last names.  They greet him when they see him.  Jackson gets up from his seat taking some of the trays, helping Derek place them on the table.  Derek thanks him, before Jackson sits down in his place at Lydia's side.  Derek finds it strange that it's Jackson, not Stiles, sitting beside Lydia, Boyd sitting on her other side between her and Stiles.

Stiles pats an empty seat on his other side, and Derek takes it.

Lydia brings him into the conversation he interrupted.  "Stiles was just about to tell us a story about a abolitionist meeting he went to."  

"You're an abolitionist?"  Derek questions.  It actually makes perfect sense, Derek has never seen any slaves on the Stilinski property.  And Boyd's presence speaks for itself.   

Stiles' eyes narrow perceivably.  "Why?  Is that a problem?"

Derek is quick to answer.  "No it isn't, I happen to strongly agree with your values."

Stiles frown visibly softens.

"We all are abolitionists."  Lydia finishes for him, spooning honey into her tea. 

"Jackson's the son of a sugar plantation owner."  Derek points out.

"Yes, and my father can burn in hell for all I care."  Jackson folds his arms under his chest.

"We don't wear cotton, and we don't consume sugar."  Lydia taps the jar of honey.

Derek looks down at his muslin shirt and trousers, feeling a pang of shame run through him.  These clothes are made from the blood, sweat, and tears of innocent slaves.  But it's not like he can afford any better.  All the others around the table wear fine silk and linen, while he sits in his cheap blood cotton.

Stiles pats Derek's hands clenched tightly in his lap.  "Don't worry Derek, I don't expect you to go naked for the cause."

"Stiles!"  Lydia scolds, and Stiles turns red as a ripe plum.

Derek bursts into laughter, and the group startles.  He hasn't laughed like this since Laura tripped over one of Cora's dolls in the forge, falling face first into his father's coal supply.  Derek wipes his eyes of moisture and looks up to see a shocked Stiles, his mouth gaping open.  Derek studies him, eyes moving to Stiles open mouth, seeing his tongue flick out, wetting his bottom lip.

Boyd clears his throat, bringing Derek out of his daze.  "Stiles, tell Lydia about the incident with Mr. Finstock."

Stiles' gaze moves from Derek to Lydia, and he laughs nervously.  "Okay."  He agrees, "So Finstock."  He turns back to Derek.  "He's a Quaker, who organizes the abolitionist fundraisers in London."  Stiles explains with a wave of his arm.  "Has a library which serves as the main depositary for writings by the Religious Society of Friends.  He's extremely proud of it, you see, and spends much time and effort adding to it. 

"At the time of the incident, he'd just installed bookshelves with rolling ladders.  But he only lets people near them if they're supervised by himself or his butler."  Stiles snickers, his long fingers moving to his mouth, trying to hold his laughter in.  "We were having a group meeting in the sitting room, when all we hear are a series of dull thumps, one after the other.  Finstock stands up, and grabs his bloody hunting musket from above the fireplace, yelling "Greenberg!" as he takes off down the hallway."  Stiles crumples into giggles.

Boyd snorts and continues the story.  "The butler escorted us out.  It was only weeks later that we found out what happened.  Finstock's nephew, Greenberg, found it necessary to have a good time rolling on the ladders.   Unfortunately he shifted his weight to the wrong side, and found himself falling down, pushing the shelves with him."  Boyd smiles.  "It was quite amusing." 

"And the thing is nobody's seen Greenberg since."  Stiles says in stitches.  "Finstock says he sent him to live with his sister.  But then Boyd and I think about the musket, and well, we come to our own conclusions."

"My god, you think he murdered him?"  Derek is shocked, who would kill their own kin?

"Oh don't be ridiculous."  Lydia waves her hands dismissively.  "I still write to Greenberg's betrothed, he is alive and well."

"Lydia, you just had to ruin the story."  Stiles sinks into his seat.

"I'm just stating the facts, you're the ones making up the fiction.  Perhaps I should be the academic, not you."  She flips her hair, and turns to Jackson.  Stiles childishly sticks his tongue out at her turned back. 

"Stiles!"  A feminine voice calls, and Stiles turns around to look behind Derek's back.

Stiles smiles.  "Allison! Thanks for coming by."  Derek whips around so fast his neck catches, watching as the Argent girl strides towards the group, her arm linked with McCall's, his face turned to gaze adoringly at her. 

 _God, she even walks like her aunt._ Kate was dangerous.  She used to slide across the ground, the exact same way she used to slide into Derek's bed.  The girl walks the same.  Predatory.

She falters when she sees him.  Her face twisting into a variety of expressions.  Confusion, hate, and finally the worst, pity.  She drops McCall's arm, gesturing in Derek's direction. "What is _he_ doing here?" 

Stiles frowns.  Looking between them, his eyebrows scrunch together.  "What's wrong Allison?"

Before Argent gets a chance to open her mouth, Derek rises from the table.  Stammering apologies at Stiles, he quickly walks away past Argent, deliberately looking anywhere but at her.

When he makes it home, he rushes past Peter without a word, hurrying into the workshop.  He grabs his hammer from its stand, and stares at it.  Derek walks over to his anvil, dazed, his ears buzzing in anger, shock, fury.  He lifts the hammer over his head, and brings it down with force onto the iron anvil. 

Argents _always_ ruin everything and anything good in his life.  They take away his family, and now his friends.  Right now Allison Argent is probably filling Stiles' head with all sorts of lies.  Spinning awful untruths so Stiles will never want to see him ever again.

Derek barely hears the shriek of metal on metal over the pounding in his ears, before he brings the hammer down.  Derek ignores Peter in his peripheral, yelling for him to stop, and he slams the hammer down again only to hear the splintering of wood, before everything goes dark.  

***

Derek wakes with a pounding headache, sunlight lying across his eyes before he shifts over, out of the beam.  He sees a foggy, familiar face staring down at him, fingers combing through his hair, exactly how she used to whenever Derek was sick.

"Mama?"  Derek chokes out, and the fingers halt in their motions.   _No, please don't stop, don't leave me._

"Derek, kid, c'mon, get your senses in order."  Derek recognizes that voice.

"Peter."  Derek grates.  "Fuck, you look so much like her."

Peter laughs.  "Yeah, every time I see my reflection that's  _exactly_  what I think."  Peter scrubs his hands over his face, but not before he catches a glimmer of tears in his uncle's eyes.  "C'mon, kid, get up.  You've got to eat something."

"Kid?  I'm fucking nine and twenty, Peter."  Derek growls, before accepting the bowl of soup held out to him.

Peter scoffs.  "Only children act the way you did.  Storming into the workshop in a rage, taking out your frustration on your father's anvil.  You broke the bloody hammer, and that's why you're here."  He gestures to Derek's bed.  "You scared the fucking shit out of me when the hammer head flew off and hit you on the head."  Peter pinches Derek's thigh meanly, and he startles, the soup slopping on himself.  "There was blood everywhere, and now you've traumatized poor Isaac, he probably thinks I killed you and dumped the body.  He keeps sending me these shifty looks."

Derek ignores him, he grabs at the rag by the bed, wiping the soup off his bare chest.  "How long was I unconscious?"   

"Only a few minutes, but you spent two whole days in and out of it."  Then Peter's face spreads into a lascivious grin.  "Your friend, Stilinski, sent over a beautiful lady doctor.  Not only is dear Melissa a feast for the eyes, but she's also proficient at her trade, considering she is a woman.  I've seen few better male doctors.

Derek freezes.  "Stiles was here?"

"No, your little rich friend never came to visit poor injured Derek on his sickbed."  Peter studies and picks dirt from his nails with a clinical flair.  That hurts Derek.  Maybe Argent did ruin their friendship.

Derek waves Peter away in frustration.  "Go away, I can tell when you're bored." 

Peter grins sharply.  "Get some sleep, you'll feel better."  He leaves Derek's bedroom.

"I've been asleep for two days, that's long enough."  Derek calls out to Peter.

"Sleep, and I'll make you ackee and saltfish for dinner."  He yells back. 

Damn, Peter knows how to bribe him.  "Maybe I could use a few more hours."  Derek mumbles before finishing the soup and collapsing back onto the bed.

***

Derek walks downstairs in the evening, headache completely gone, to Stiles sitting with Peter, shoving spoonful after spoonful of ackee and saltfish into his mouth, trying to talk over the food.

"Well this seems cozy."  Derek says, his brow raised.

"Derek, you're awake."  Stiles mumbles around the food in his mouth.  "You're uncle is an amazing cook."  Stiles turns to Peter,  smiling with his mouth full, half chewed food falling back into his bowl.  Peter winces in disgust.  Derek wonders where Stiles developed his table manners, surely not in his noble grandfather's house.

"What brings you here?"  Derek asks, the  _now, instead of when I was sick_ clear in his tone.

And of course Stiles doesn't catch it.  "Peter sent Isaac to Melissa, saying you were awake and I wanted to come and see for myself."

"On that topic, who is that beautiful woman?"  Peter asks with a wink.

Stiles freezes, his mouth open.  "Melissa?"  He squeaks.

Peter nods.

Suspiciously, Stiles answers.  "She's Scott's mother, she helped raise me."

"Could you officially introduce me to the beautiful lady?" 

Stiles looks even more put out.  "Melissa McCall is off limits to you, good sir.  No matter how delicious your food is."  For emphasis he roughly shoves another spoonful in his mouth.

Peter frowns before grabbing Stiles bowl, taking it away and walking back to the kitchen.

"You stay away from her!  I'm not above having you followed!"  Stiles calls to a retreating Peter's back.

Derek raises his brow.  "What's wrong with Peter?"

"Nothing.  It's just Melissa's technically still married.  Her husband's in the navy, even if she hasn't seen him in ages."  Stiles sighs.

"Could he be dead?"

"Don't we all wish Rafael McCall was dead?  No, unfortunately he still sends them cryptic letters Scott loves to burn.  Melissa is too good a woman, she remains faithful to a man she hasn't seen in years."

"He is her husband."

"He doesn't act like it."  Stiles snaps.  "Sometimes I hate these situations, she cannot get a divorce because McCall won't for allow it, yet she remains faithful to a man who doesn't deserve her."

Derek grins at him. "You seem oddly invested."

"I wanted to marry her when I was younger."  Stiles admits with a smile.  "It's a sore topic for me, especially when my mother told me exactly why I could never be Scott's step-father."

"You wanted to be McCall's step-father?"  Derek laughs incredulously.

Stiles laughs.  "He was so much bigger than me, I wanted to boss him around, and I figured what better way than to become his father."

Derek grins, his eyes crinkling.  "It seems you were born to be a politician."

Stiles' smile falters.  "That was never for me."  He turns to look out their display window, staring into the dusk, the sun setting in the distance.

Derek studies his profile, and he finally asks the question he'd been dying to.  "Why didn't you come to see me?"

Stiles looks back at him, his eyes soft. "I can't sit beside another person's sick bed, especially not someone I care about." 

"You care about me?"  Derek questions.

"Of course I do.  You're one of my best friends."  Stiles smiles.

"Only one of your friends, huh?"  Derek freezes.  He has no idea where those words came from.

Stiles is staring at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Fuck, shit, I mean."  Derek trails off, he has no excuse that might be believable.

"No it's fine, Derek.  I understand what you mean."  Stiles waves him away, like his outburst is nothing.  Like it's not a fucking sin.

"You've managed to worm your way into my heart, you sly fox."

_What?  What the fuck is he saying?_

"You're my best friend."  Stiles grins, and Derek sighs with a mixture of relief and frustration.  "Just don't tell Scott."

Something is seriously wrong with Derek.  There's something building in him, and it's so _wrong, wrong, wrong_.  It's like how he felt during the beginning of his romance with Kate, and it is wrong because Stiles  _is a man_.  But the way Stiles laughs, it tears through Derek and he feels his soul ignite in a way he lost when his family burned.

He is so fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you noticed I changed this from /3 to /5 chapters, because I have so many ideas and I couldn't condense it all into one more chapter.
> 
> As a note this fic takes place in 1793, ten years before the start of the Napoleonic Wars, right at the beginning of the French revolution, something which has almost no significance to this story, except for the political drives behind some characters' motives. Some historical happenings that occurred in 1793 include...
> 
> Louis XVI was executed on the 21st of January, 1793.
> 
> Saint-Domingue, now known as Haiti, abolished slavery after a long grilling rebellion against French colonizers and the island's slavers. In 1804 the French were completely expelled and the Republic of Haiti was born.
> 
> Once again, so unbeta'd like whoa.

The smell of burning wood cloys his senses.  Derek is used to the black coal smoke, but this is completely different.  This is the combined smell of burning dirt and wood, and the slight hint meat and hair.  He can hear Kate whispering in his ear, feel the ghost of her fingers trailing down his naked stomach, cupping his flaccid cock. 

"They're all gone now, love, we can finally be together.  You're mine, Derek.  All mine."  Her breath feels cold on his skin, and a chill runs over his body, regardless of the blazing fire consuming everything and everyone he ever cared about.

He wakes with a start.  The sheets lie tangled around his ankles and the cool breeze blowing from the ocean raises goose bumps on his naked skin.  Derek closes the shutters before tugging on a shirt and trousers.  He stumbles to the water jug, pouring water into a bowl before splashing his face.

That was  _the dream_.  The one where he could smell his family burning alive, screams puncturing the air, but he couldn't do anything.  He was stuck.  Kate curled around him in the loft of the Argent's shed, pinning him to the straw, holding him down, fucking him until he's boneless from fear and hatred, but he can't fling her off.  Kate, reclining next to him, cup of wine in hand, a few drops of quicksilver added so her womb wouldn't quicken with his child.  The drink making her half crazed as she whispers his family's demise in his ear.

He hasn't had the dream in years, but now with his revelation about Stiles, he's dreams it almost every day.

He loved Kate, and he's loving Stiles the way he loved her in the beginning when their affair was made of passion with no madness.  It scares him.  Stiles is a man, and it's such a heavy sin to love another man.  He's heard stories whispered about naval officers partaking in sodomy on the high seas, only to be caught, sentenced, and hung.  Their bodies left for sea creatures to feast upon.

He doesn't much care for religious prohibition.  His faith was razed to the ground when his family was.  It's the legalities of it that worry him.  If found guilty, sodomizers are executed brutally.  He could never do that to Stiles, even if he did love Derek the same way Derek loves him. 

Every single person he's ever loved has died.  Paige, when they with just eight years, and she drowned in the ocean.  Kate, when she hanged for her part in the murder of Derek's family.  He cannot allow Stiles to die because of his curse. 

So he suppresses his feelings.  Besides, Stiles has a betrothed who loves him.  He won't ever return Derek's ridiculous feelings.  Lydia cares for him, touches him easily, holds his hand, whispers amusements in his ear so they both laugh.  They are in love, and it hurts Derek to see them, but their perfect relationship is the dose of cold water he needs to temp down the feelings he has for his friend.

It's a successful endeavor until he walks in on Jackson and Lydia and comes face to face with their carnal relationship.  Lydia's hands grip Jackson's blond hair in a vice, her mouth sucking and biting his lips, his hand buried under her skirts.

Derek looks away, anger thrumming through his veins.  It feels like a betrayal.  How could Stiles' friends do this to him?  A man so beautiful and sweet, happily puttering away a floor above while his betrothed betrays him.  Derek can hear his footsteps as he wanders around his study, quill in hand, making marks down on papers scattered everywhere.  His research consuming him so much so he cannot see the betrayal in his own house.

Derek growls, and the guilty pair break apart with a shocked gasp, turning to look at him with fear in their eyes.  They probably thought no one would come into the pantry at this time of day.  Derek's only here because Stiles was feeling peckish.  He opens his mouth to growl obscenities at the two of them.  But Lydia silences him with a pleading hand on his wrist.

"Ask him about us."

"What?"  He glares, effectively staring the pair down.

" _Ask_  Stiles.  He already knows about Jackson and I, he'll explain it better.  I think if I tried to tell you anything, you wouldn't believe a single word coming out of my mouth."

 

"And you'd be right.  You expect me to believe Stiles knows about  _this_?"  He gestures to the arms Jackson has wrapped around Lydia's waist.

 

"He's the one who encouraged us to be together.  Stiles is our most avid supporter, he offered to marry me just so a noble's daughter may love the disgraced second son of a plantation owner."  She runs her fingers through Jackson's hair in a way that speaks of years of love and affection.  Derek growls.  " _Let him_   _explain_."  She urges before dropping Derek's arm, and dragging Jackson around him, out of the pantry, leaving him to ponder what just happened.

He climbs the stairs, his mind fogged.  Catching sight of Stiles wrapped up in his work, he bursts out,  "Why would you allow yourself to become a cuckold?"

"Derek?"  Stiles questions, his long fingers paused over paper, a quill in hand.

"I saw them.  Lydia and Jackson, copulating in  _your_  pantry.  She claims you know about it."

Stiles sighs, plopping the quill into the reservoir.  "You have to understand two things about me, Derek.  Firstly, I care nothing for propriety.  Absolutely nothing.  You already see that with the way I dress."  Stiles gestures down his body, and Derek notices he is nude from the waist up once again.  A trail of dark hair leads from his belly button, disappearing into fabric.  The lacings of Stiles' breeches are untied, with just one small tug the buttons would snap open, revealing Stiles to the world.   Derek quickly looks up from Stiles' crotch.  He can feel blood rush to his face, and he fights to temp it down. 

Stiles continues not noticing Derek's inner confusion.  "Secondly, Lydia is my sister in everything but blood.  I love her.  But I don't love her the way Jackson does."

"Lydia said you're doing this so they can be together."  Derek walks to him as Stiles rises from his chair.  "You shouldn't have to be in a loveless marriage for the sake of your friends.  You deserve happiness above all others.  Stiles, you are such a kind soul."  Derek aches for his friend, he wants nothing but happiness for the man he loves.

"I can only have a loveless marriage, Derek.  It's something I'll have to live with as the grandson of a noble and..."  Stiles trails off smiling faintly at Derek, his eyes distant, before he snaps back to reality, clapping Derek shoulder lightheartedly.  "Now come on, where is my snack?"

He avoids Lydia and Jackson because while Stiles claims he supports their affair, Derek can't stand to watch his reason to forget about wanting Stiles dissolve into nothing.     

He throws himself into his work.  Motivations run from an innate desire to better himself, but also to impress Stiles.  He figures that maybe if he becomes one of the best sword smiths in the West Indies he could raise his status enough so...

Enough so, what?

It's not like he could ask the governor for Stiles' hand in marriage.  Stiles isn't a woman, he's a man who probably would kill Derek himself if he knew how he felt.  Sometimes Derek forgets that loving him is such a sin.

Derek's sitting at his work bench in the forge, the doors and shutters spread open, trying to capture some and any breeze coming off the ocean.  With the taste of salt in the air, Derek's delicately applying a thin mixture of kaolin and carbon to the blade of an unfinished sword. 

From the notes Boyd translated, this is how Japanese sword smiths form a hard edge on a blade while the back remains soft.  It allows for a unique blend of flexibility and stiffness, forcing the characteristic gentle curve on a katana.  He's been experimenting, and trying out different techniques.  Derek's not trying to make a katana, but he wants to incorporate elements of Japanese smithing into his practice.

According to the notes, he has to fire the blade until it's the red of the setting sun.  Derek crosses his fingers and hopes sunsets in Japan are the same as they are in Kingston, because if the sword gets too hot it will crack.

He takes the roughly formed blade to the furnace where a pile of charcoal steadily burns a sooty orange, sparks raining everywhere.  He slowly heats the blade, thrusting it into the ashy charcoal, pulling on the bellow handle.  The fire springs to life, turning a brilliant blue.  Derek feels the intense heat.  Sweat pools from his skin, running down his shirtless back, dripping onto the ashy ground.  Thrusting the blade in and out a few times, checking on the progress, it slowly heats.

By the time it burns a blazing orange, Derek's hair is plastered to his forehead, and he's already regretting foregoing a shirt.  He has new bald patches on his chest due to sparks flying out and singeing the hair every time he shifts the sword, or blows air with the bellow.  Slowly removing the blade from the furnace, he quickly submerges it in a trough of water.  Steam blows up all around him, and the blade vibrates and bends with the force of the rapid cooling. 

The sword would only curve if he used the exact quantity of kaolin on all the right parts, but even before he removes the blade from the water, he knows he was successful.  There's much more tension in the steel than there was before.

With the bellow not blowing air on to the charcoal, the fire eventually extinguishes itself into a soft glowing red.  Tapping the blade, the kaolin falls off revealing a roughly shaped piece of curved metal with a beautifully uneven tempering line.

He can't wait to show Stiles.

***

"Fuck, Derek."  Stiles gasps, staring in wonder at the hiltless blade.  It's unpolished and unrefined, and yet, Stiles treats it like it's a masterpiece.  Derek feels heat rush to his face.

"I have yet to polish it."  Derek mumbles, his face red.

"Still."  Stiles drags his finger reverently along the tempering line.  "Is this really your first time making a tempering line?  Kira told me she's seen apprentices missing fingers because their blades snap during cooling."

"Kira?"  Derek asks.

"The friend who gave me the Muramasa."  Stiles smiles.  "Her mother is one of the best sword smiths in the whole of Japan."

"A woman?"  Automatically Derek thinks of Laura, how she wanted to apprentice along with Derek, and how his father was just about ready to give in to her, unable to withstand her pleading.  If the fire hadn't happened she would've been working beside Derek in the forge helping make this sword.

"Don't let Kira hear you say that.  Her mother's work is impressive, and the only reason she gained that knowledge was because her father only had daughters.  Instead of letting his secrets leave the family, he sucked it up and taught his daughter."  Stiles laughs.  "Kira says her grandfather still goes to the lengths of fucking his younger wife every night, just in case she might conceive a son.  The virility of that old man is impressive."

Derek grins.  "You misunderstand, my sister wanted to study swordsmithing."  Derek smiles, thinking about Laura, and for some reason talking to Stiles about her doesn't hurt as much as it should.  "As for the virility of elderly men, you should've seen my grandfather, he used to make it a point to visit the brothels, and for what?  He was nearly ninety years, the man couldn't have possibly done anything at that age."

"Oh?  But maybe he could."  Stiles winks.  "I guess that speaks for the virility of Hale men."  Derek blushes.  "You're going to make some lucky ladies very happy in your old age."

Derek swallows.  "Hopefully not, my grandfather croaked in that brothel when I was ten.  I would prefer not to die in the arms of a prostitute."

"Some men would be happy to disagree with you."

"I'm not some men."  Derek says, trying not to look at Stiles with intent, but failing spectacularly.  He thinks Stiles' tanned skin pinks slightly, but it could just be the sun.  Derek laughs nervously, turning the subject back to the sword.  "Sunsets in Japan must look exactly like those in Kingston."  He says running his finger along the back of the blade.

Stiles glances down, and only then did Derek realize they were staring at each other.  Stiles' pink tongue slips out from his mouth and wets his lips, Derek traces its movement with his eyes, gazing at the sheen of moisture on the soft flesh as it reflects in the sun.  "Why is that?"

Derek gulps, throat bobbing.  He goes on to explain the information Boyd translated, Stiles nodding along, while Derek fights the urge to wipe away the rapidly evaporating moisture on Stiles' lip with his thumb.  The sun shines on Stiles eyelashes casting the darkest shadows on his cheekbone, and Derek sucks in a breath.

He's so damned beautiful.  And it fucking aches.  Derek promised himself he would never be selfish enough to love again after Kate, but it seems his emotions have other ideas.

He remembers the first time he saw Kate when she came to the forge to pick up an order of kitchen knives.  She was a golden haired beauty, seven years older than him and unmarried.  Her father loved her enough to give her anything, including her choice in husband. 

He was a sixteen year old child, thinking with his cock, beyond happy that a woman would show interest in him.

That day in the forge, Kate winked at him, leaning over the counter, the globes of her full breasts almost hanging from her dress.  She ran her fingers over his as he handed her the wrapped parcel.

A week later, he lost his virginity to her in the Argent's storage shed, coming in three short thrusts.  After he rolled off her, Kate took his hand, pulling it to her cunt so she could take her pleasure with his fingers.  She told him she loved him and wanted to marry him.  Stupidly, Derek agreed.  He had told his mother he intended to be betrothed to her, signing his family's death warrant.

Derek never knew Kate was promiscuous, but Talia knew all too well, she had seen Kate walk around town, a different man on her arm every day of the week.  She forbid Derek from seeing Kate, trying to protect her son.  But Derek didn't believe her, he thought his mother simply didn't want him to marry an older woman.

He met with Kate in secret, telling her she would have to wait to marry him, wait for him to gain autonomy from his family.  It would only be a few years, he said, and she agreed.  His family burned three days after that conversation.  Kate's way of granting Derek his autonomy.  She had called him out that night, sneaking him off to their shed, and they fucked, after Kate took her dose of quicksilver in wine.  She then took him by the hand and pointed to the forge, towards a night sky illuminated by orange flames.

Derek hates himself every day for falling for Kate.  If he didn't fuck her, he wouldn't have told his mother he wanted to marry her.  If he didn't think he loved her, she wouldn't have burned his family alive when she couldn't have him.

Derek's a fucking mess.  And he's been one for thirteen years. 

Peter manages to deal with the fire in his own way, spending his nights drinking, and his wages on opiates.  Maybe Derek is better off with his guilt.  At least he doesn't feel the need to wash away his depression with drugs.  Instead, he's very good at internalizing it.  After all, it's what he deserves.

This thing with Stiles, and it's not even a thing since Stiles obviously doesn't feel the same, is dangerous.  And not for the obvious reasons.  Stiles makes Derek happy, but he knows he doesn't deserve to be happy with another person.  Perhaps his feelings for Stiles are actually a blessing in disguise. Derek is not allowed to have him, and that alone is the perfect kind of torture.

***

Sweat pours down his face, soaking into his collar as Derek holds his stance, the infantry sword heavy in his hand.

"Protect your flank."  Boyd says, swinging the Chinese sabre.  For such a large man Boyd can wield a deadly weapon with beautiful delicacy.

"Shouldn't we be using wooden swords?"  Derek gasps, barely managing to step out of the way of the slashing blade.

"Who told you that?"  Stiles laughs from his seat by the side of the paved practice area, comfortable under a sun umbrella, as he sips on a glass of saltpeter chilled lemonade.  Derek eyes the glass and the condensation dripping off the sides.  His mouth waters, mostly from thoughts of the cool lemonade, but also from Stiles' thin fingers, wet from condensation, gripping the glass.  "Do you see the guards practice with their light wooden sticks?  What do they learn from that, but how to dodge a branch?  You won't learn how to quarry steel unless it is done with steel."

"Fuck."  Derek snaps out of his daze, blocking another swing from Boyd, while Stiles laughs, amused at his pain.

"Watch Boyd, follow his movements, don't dodge to survive, gain the upper hand.  Use his weaknesses against him."  Stiles points out.  Derek studies Boyd, the man is built like a mountain, biceps huge and bulking.  It's only natural to assume he doesn't maneuver very well.  Derek waits for Boyd to swing the sabre again before ducking under, out of the way, and twirling around to Boyd's back, placing the blade lightly against the larger man's neck.  "Yield?"

"Yield."  Boyd says, and Derek lowers the blade.

"Good."  Stiles calls.  "Maybe next time Boyd will actually try."

"What?"  Derek exclaims.  He turns to Boyd, wide eyed.  "You weren't even trying?"

Boyd snorts.  "It's a good idea to figure out an opponent's weakness and use it against them.  For a lesser swordsman it might have worked, but more practiced men learn to overcome their weaknesses."

Derek sighs.  "You did fine for a beginner."  Boyd claps his shoulder.

"There's nothing like dying in a real skirmish because I was only  _fine_."  Derek snarks.

"Don't worry."  Stiles calls out, as Derek walks over to the umbrella, intent on the cold pitcher of lemonade.  "Unless you plan on joining the navy, you don't have to worry about dying in a skirmish."  He paused tapping his chin.  "Unless Kingston is attacked by pirates, of course."

Derek laughs, pouring two glasses, handing the other to Boyd, who gulps it down quickly.  "Now what's most likely?"

"You never know."

"Stiles."  A voice he doesn't recognize calls from behind him.  Derek watches Stiles stiffen, quickly rising from his seat.

"Father."  Stiles says, and Derek turns around, finally meeting Stiles' father.

The governor is a stately man wearing a trim waist coat.  His hair is tied back with a silk ribbon, kept away from a lined face that speaks of years of hard wrought wisdom.  Even missing a powdered wig and fine clothes, the governor extrudes knowledge and power.  Derek feels small compared to him.  Derek wonders if, since he has no decent education, he would approve of Derek being friends with his son. 

The governor places his hand on Stiles' shoulder, before pulling him into a brief, warm hug.  Derek watches the tension visibly seep out of Stiles' body as he returns his father's embrace.

"How was Port Royal?"  Stiles asks when he pulls away from his father.

The governor laughs.  "A shithole, as always.  I swear the crime rate is going through the roof, I need to hire a new constable, I think this one's been taking bribes." 

"Good riddance, Dryden was a drunk anyway."  Stiles scoffs, before brightening.  "Father, I don't think you've met Derek."  Stiles waves to where Derek is standing just slightly behind him. 

The governor's attention draws his from his son, and he studies Derek critically.  Derek raises his hand to shake.  "Governor Stilinski, it is nice to meet you."

The governor smiles at him, shaking his hand.  "Call me John.  Stiles has told me a lot about you."

"He has?"  Derek blushes, ducking his head.

"He does nothing but gush praises over your smithing skills at dinner.  Dinner!  Even my constitution isn't hardy enough to withstand talking about the cutting ability of swords when I'm trying to eat."

"I'm so sorry?"  Derek says, trying not to smile, that sounds so like Stiles.

"Not your fault, blame my idiot son."  John says says fondly.

"Hey!  I resent that."  Stiles crosses his arms, pouting.

John reaches out to ruffle his son's hair, making it stand up in all directions.  "Son, you know it's true."  John sighs.  "Anyway, it was nice to meet you Derek, and such a pleasure to see you again Boyd."  Boyd nods his head smiling.  "But my idiot son and I need to discuss a few things.  Come along, Stiles."  John walks off with his arm comfortably thrown around Stiles' shoulders, Derek stares after them with a wistful smile on his face.  He misses his parents so much sometimes.

He's thrust out of his memories when Boyd nudges him in the side.  "Help me clean up."

After they put away some of the equipment, Boyd sends Derek up to Stiles' room to return the two swords.  He nearly knocks on the door, but stops, hearing voices coming from inside.  Curious, he places his ear against the wood.

"Can't you see Stiles, slavery is a necessary evil, it's how we survive in the colonies?  Mothers could not feed their children and without it we would all starve."  Derek hears John say.

"What about those mothers forced to watch their children eat from troughs like animals?  What about them?"

"I'm trying, alright?  I'm trying to institute regulations and laws about that.  It's inhuman and horrible."

"So is slavery.  Slavers do whatever they like because they know our economy depends on them, and the moment you try to change it they will have you removed from your position."

"My hands are tied, Stiles.  Whittemore will see me thrown from office for the leave I give you, can you imagine what he would do if I passed the anti-cruelty bill?  He would have my head on a pike."

"We need that bill, father."  Stiles pleads.  "Please."  Derek hears Stiles' voice crack.

"I can't, son.  The man Whittemore wants to replace me is a staunch supporter of slavery.  I cannot allow Daehler any position of power whatsoever.  He would undo all the hard work I've done to get those first few humanitarian laws passed."

"Dammit, this is such bullshit!"  A crashing noise comes from within, followed by a soft thud.

"I'm sorry, Stiles."  Suddenly the door opens and Derek quickly backs away so it doesn't seem like he was eavesdropping.  John looks at him with a brow raised before sighing, gesturing in through the door.  "Help him."  He whispers so Stiles doesn't hear.

Derek hurries into the room.  Stiles is sitting on the floor, back leaning against the desk, his head cradled in his hands.  Writing supplies are scattered around him like he swept them off the desk in anger.  Derek watches his shoulders shaking, almost like he's crying.  Derek hopes he isn't.  

Derek falls to his knees in front of him, reaching out to grip Stiles' elbows.  "Stiles?"  He asks softly.  "Are you alright?"

Stiles raises his head and hastily wipes away his tears.  "It's so wrong, Derek.  Slavery is so wrong and I feel tainted belonging to a society where it's the norm.  I feel so disgusting."

"Hey."  Derek swipes his thumb gently under Stiles' puffy red eyes, wiping the rest of his tears away.  "This isn't something that can just vanish overnight, your father's right, it takes time."

"I don't see why it has to take time.  My whole livelihood is based upon the blood of innocent people.  Sometimes I just want to go back to New Guinea."

Derek holds his breath, and tries not to panic.  He doesn't want Stiles to leave.  Not now, not ever.  "Come on, you can't give up so easily."  He chucks the him lightly under the chin.  "That's not like you."

"But it is so different there, Derek."  Stiles gets a faraway look in his eyes.  "The people in the Trobriand Islands, they travel thousands of miles, risking life and limb to gift each other  _jewelry_ , all the while expecting nothing in return."  He frowns.  "Then I come back here and I'm slapped in the face with a society where people are commoditized, it disgusts me."

"Tell me about New Guinea."  Derek says trying to distract Stiles.  "When did you sail there?"

Stiles sighs, rubbing his eyes.  "After I graduated from Oxford.  Boyd came with me on the research trip while Jackson and Lydia sailed back here."  He looks up at Derek with wide eyes.  "I spent three years living and studying there, and some days I miss it like burning.  The volcanoes, the jungles, the animals.  Those Islands became a second home for me, and over time England and its politics faded into the background."

"It sounds wonderful."

"It is.  I would love to take you one day, but I know your life is here, I could never ask you to leave your business behind."

"You'd be surprised, Stiles, just how unattached I am to this island."  With his family dead, all that keeps him here is Peter and the forge.  But in the end Peter has Isaac who is steadily improving day by day, in a few short years he will surpass Derek. 

Derek could easily uproot his life and follow Stiles anywhere.  Forget about the torture of being near him and not having him, Derek just wants to bathe in Stiles' presence.  He makes him feel so alive.

Stiles studies him for a few moments, gazing into his eyes, like he's trying to read Derek's mind.  He looks like he wants to say something to Derek, but his eyes fall to the swords still clutched in Derek's hand.  "Come on, help me put these away."  He takes a weapon from Derek, gets up, and walks away.  Derek sighs and follows.

***

Derek's sits in the shade under the awning at the front of the shop, heavy tomes in front of him along with Boyd's translation notes.  He has a few hours of free time on his hands with Isaac's busy using the workshop to catch up on horseshoe orders.

He's studying the images, looking at the different tempering lines he can create, some of them require great skill, and according to the notes are extremely difficult to achieve.  Unless he manages to find some kaolin endemic to Hokkaido, he won't be making them.  Derek sticks to what he can do with the materials available to him. 

He's so absorbed in the notes, trying to figure out from context what Boyd meant when he uses a word Derek doesn't know, he doesn't notice a voice calling his name until there's a shadow cast upon him.

"Mr. Hale?"  Derek looks up to see Allison Argent watching him with a indiscernible look on her face.  She's holding a canvas parasol, but also wearing a flared bonnet, which Derek finds awfully repetitive.  A little sun never hurt anyone, just look at Stiles.  But then it hits him, why the hell is an Argent trying to talk to him?

"Miss."  He nods, before going back to his work, hopefully she'll understand that he doesn't want to talk to her, and just walk away.

"I wish to speak with you."

"There is nothing to speak of."  Derek bites back none to gently.

"I think there is."

Derek puts down the papers with shaking hands, they don't deserve his displease.  He looks her in the eye as he says.  "Miss Argent, believe me when I say, there is absolutely nothing  _we_  need to speak of.  So excuse my language, but sod off."

Her eyes narrow discernibly.  "I was hoping we could reach a truce, seeing as I will be marrying Stiles' best friend, but it seems there will always be bad blood between us."

"I wonder why?"  Derek says sarcastically.

"Mr. Hale, I was seven years when my aunt committed that heinous act, yet you act as if I personally wronged you.  The sins of the family should not be passed onto the children.  I am not my aunt."  She argues.

"Your aunt was not the only one at fault.  It takes more than one person to murder a whole family, especially when the mastermind was fucking me at the time."

Allison flinches at his crude words.  "You can't think my father was involved?  It was never proved."  She argues.

"Then pray tell, how could Kate be in two places at once?"  Derek glares.

"I don't know!"  She protests, fingers turning white around her parasol's grip, like she wants nothing more than to swing it at Derek's head.  "But my father would never do something like that.  There was a child, for heaven's sake!"

"Yes, there was.  My baby sister Cora was two years and we couldn't even find her remains because of your fucking family!"  He yells, unconcerned that he's causing a scene.

"You have no right to blame me for that!  I'm trying to fix what Kate did, but I need your cooperation."

"You can't bring them back!"  Derek yells.  "And as far as I'm concerned that's the only way I could ever think about forgiving you."

"What the hell is this ruckus?"  Peter stands in the doorway, summoned by Derek's shouting.  "Miss Argent, what are you doing here?"  Peter asks with just a hint of hostility in his voice.  Seems Derek isn't the only one who isn't keen on Christopher's daughter coming to talk to them.

"Nothing."  She sniffs.  "I was just leaving.  I don't know what I was thinking trying to build bridges.  It's useless!"  She turns and marches away down the street.

Peter watches her walk away with furrowed brows, before turning to Derek.  "Come now, you can't blame the girl, she couldn't have been more than ten at the time."

Derek says nothing as he quickly gathers the papers scattered around him.  He pushes past Peter, walking into the shop without a word.

"Derek."  Peter grabs his hand stopping him from heading up the stairs.  "That girl is Stiles' friend.  Do you really think he would associate with a person of the caliber which you accused her?  No.  He is smart, and a good judge of character.  Think on that before you go yelling accusations into the streets of Kingston." 

Derek stares at him blankly before shaking off Peter's hand and continuing his way up. 

In his room he collapses onto the bed.  Staring up into the cracked plaster ceiling, he curls up on himself, before he feels the shivers hit his body, running through his limbs like ice.  Goose bumps prickle uncomfortable even though at midday his room is filled with a humid heat. 

He used to get panic attacks all the time after the fire, but they've been happening less frequently over the span of thirteen years.  In fact, he hasn't had one this bad since he met Stiles.  Derek lets out a whimper as he feels his muscles stiffen.  He shoves his hand in his mouth, biting down into soft flesh so Peter won't hear and come investigate.  Peter doesn't know about his attacks, Derek's been successful at hiding them and they always fade after a little bit.

Derek thinks about Stiles and how he's helped him.  When Derek talks about his family to Stiles he doesn't feel the onset of panic, instead he feels happy to share all the little idiosyncrasy that characterized the Hales.  Maybe it's because Stiles doesn't feel sorry for him, doesn't treat Derek like someone to be pitied.  He lost his mother too, and was an ocean away from his father for years.  Stiles understands exactly what it's like to miss family.

Or maybe it's because Derek's in love with him. 

Eventually the panic attack subsides, thoughts of Stiles taking the place of burning fire.

***

A few days later during a lull in business, Derek heads to the Stilinski manor.  He knocks on the door, and it's answered by the same blonde maid as always.

"Mr. Hale, Stiles isn't here right now."

"I'll come back later then."  He turns around and starts walking away.

"Wait.  I'm pretty sure Boyd would like to see you."  She smiles jovially.

"Thank you, Miss..."  He trailed off when he realized he didn't know her name.

"Please, call me Erica.  It's high time you knew my name."  She grins and Derek hopes she isn't flirting with him, it would only end in tears on both their behalf's.

She leads him up the stairs, tapping lightly on the door beside Stiles' room.  Boyd answers barely a moment later, and grins at Erica in a way Derek's never seen him do before, and she smiles right back.  Derek knows she wasn't flirting with him now.  The way she smiles at Boyd, that's flirting. 

"Erica, to what do I owe this pleasure?"  Boyd sounds like a blushing school boy as he looks at the maid from under his lashes.

She giggles, and Derek snorts.  "Hate to interrupt you two lovebirds, but you wanted to see me?"

Erica freezes, turning to him, her expression vulnerable.  "Lovebirds?  We're not lovebirds."  She says, eyes shifting, before Boyd reaches out and grabs her arm, startling her out of what might've become a near panic.

"Love, it's fine."  Boyd soothes.  "It's okay if Derek knows."  He turns to Derek.  "Right?"

Derek raises his palms in surrender.  "You are free to love whom so ever you please, but you should be careful, some people won't take kindly to your relationship."  He's heard horror stories about white women marrying freed slaves, only for their husbands to be brutally murdered in front of them.

"Pathetic bigots, all of them."  Erica hisses.  Derek raises his eyes at Erica's words, seems the mask of a lady is saved for those unaware of their relationship.

Boyd smiles indulgently, wrapping his fingers around Erica's hand.  "Those people aren't invited into private quarters, everyone in the house knows about us, but we refrain ourselves when the governor has guests over."  He laughs.  "Congratulations, Derek, it seems we're used to you."

They settle to talk in Boyd's room.  A room that happens to be much larger than Stiles', considering Boyd is his employee.  Erica brings them a pot of tea and honey, and settles on the couch beside Boyd, pulling out a hefty tome, claiming she has a break before she has to return to her duties.  Derek doesn't ask about how she knows to read.  But glancing at the cover is useless,  _El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha_ means nothing to him.  It isn't English, that's for sure.

"What is it?"  He asks, pointing to the book.

"Don Quijote."

"Don Kee-hote-ay?"  Derek asks puzzled.  "What language is that?"

"Spanish.  Somehow I can read it.  Strange, isn't it?"

Derek raises a brow.  "What do you mean by  _somehow_?"

 

"Don't you know?"  Boyd asks.  "Erica was on the wreck of the  _Santiago,_ they were looted by pirates.  She was one of the few survivors."  Derek heard about the incident, it was the talk of the town a month before Stiles came back to Kingston, he never heard about any survivors though, Derek guesses the governor hired Erica after she was stranded.

"I'm so sorry."  Derek turns to her.

 She waves his concerns away.  "It's fine, I have no memory of the incident, nor anything prior to it.  Melissa says I hit my head during the takeover I have amnesia."

"But she's slowly regaining her memories."  Boyd presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Yeah, I woke last week with the sudden ability to speak Spanish, can you believe it?"  She gushes.  "Stiles gave me a stack of books this morning, and I can understand absolutely everything, it's amazing!"

"Doesn't that mean you're a lady?"  Derek asks.  "If you can read, it means you're educated."

Boyd laughs.  "That's exactly what Stiles said, but Erica doesn't have the ability, nor desire, to sit still and embroider with Melissa."

"It's a bore."  Erica explains.  "I'd rather cook.  I do love cooking and reading."

A lady who loves to cook.  Spain is truly a mystifying country.

"Has he gotten in touch with your family?"  Derek asks and Erica freezes at his question, Boyd's hand tightening around hers. 

She shakes her head.  "Something in my gut tells me that's a bad idea.  Do you ever get that feeling?  Where it feels like a knife twisting, telling you something is a bad, bad idea.  That's exactly what I feel when I think about Stiles tracking down whomever makes up my family."

Derek nods.  He knows very well.  He had that feeling with Kate, but he never listened, and look where that got him.  "Trust your instincts."

She smiles in camaraderie before turning back to her book.

"Now then."  Boyd says, getting up and picking up a parcel from his desk, handing it to Derek.  It's unexpectedly heavy and he nearly drops it.

"What is it?"  He asks, unwrapping it.  Boyd says nothing waiting for him to finish.

He finds a simple wooden box with writing he recognizes from the Japanese scrolls he looked at.  Sliding open the top he sees waterstones of various fine grits.  Derek takes in a deep breath.  "Shit."  He swears on the exhale.

Boyd shakes his head.  "I swear Stiles either has a personal desire to watch you become the world's greatest sword smith, or he's planning on collecting royalties from all your future sales."

"I'd let him."  Derek breathes, staring in wonder at the stones.  "These must've been expensive."

Boyd scoffs.  "Expensive doesn't even begin to cut it.  These stones are worth more than you are.  Three hundred pounds for the lot of them."  Derek nearly drops the box.

"That's more than five times what Peter and I make in a year.  My god." 

"Is he always this sacrilegious."  Erica asks looking up from her book.

Boyd laughs.  "Not always."

"What do you expect?  I can't accept this, it's too much."  He tries to hand the box back to Boyd but he refuses.

"You will accept.  It's too late to return them anyhow.  Stiles had these smuggled out of Japan, so Kira won't give him his money back even if you don't accept.  Take them, and use them, and make Stiles a beautiful weapon in return."

Derek can do nothing but nod his head in thanks.

"Come."  Boyd waves to him, getting up from his seat.  "I'll see you to the door."

Derek carefully wraps the box of waterstones again in the heavy cloth, taking extra care to make sure they are secure, before saying goodbye to Erica, and following Boyd out of his study.

They're making their way down the stairs when Boyd grabs him by the shoulder, steering him to door underneath the staircase, he opens it, pushing Derek inside before closing the door behind them.

They're in a small storage closet with a tiny clouded window letting in only the barest amount of light, only enough to make out Boyd's features.  "What are you doing?"  Derek asks confused.  Does Boyd want to say something he doesn't fancy Erica hearing?

Boyd studies him critically out of the corner of his eye.  "I've seen the way you look at him, Derek.  Be careful.  If he ends up dead because of your carelessness I will string you up myself."

Derek stares at Boyd, wide eyed, his mind running a mile a minute, before he screws his face back into a mask of indifference.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

Boyd nods, before clapping him on the shoulder.  "Good, make sure no one else know what I'm talking about either.  Goodbye Derek."

Derek doesn't say anything, he just pulls open the door, walking like a revenant out of the Stilinski home, his heart beating fast in terror.  Shit.

***

Derek spends the next week stewing in the forge with Isaac, until his apprentice kicks him out, claiming his gloom interferes with his ability to produce well made nails.  Derek can still recall the time when Isaac was nothing but a meek young boy, and sometimes he misses it, until he remembers exactly what made Isaac quiet.

Derek wishes the elder Lahey drowned himself in the bottle years ago.  But with his luck the abusive bastard is still going on strong, waiting for the day Camden resurrects from the beyond.  The man failed to appreciate what was in front of him, and didn't even protest when Derek took a beat and bruised twelve year old Isaac away from him.  Isaac still sees his father, to Derek's protests.  Still feels the need to care for him, but at least now he doesn't spend all his time with him.

Isaac is loyal to a fault, but he is also a little shit.  Derek wonders if this is the teenage rebellious stage he never got a chance to experience on account of his entire family dying in a fiery inferno.

So forge-less, and too terrified to visit Stiles because of what Boyd's knows, he is left with nothing to do but run errands for Peter until someone feels the need to place an order for a blade.  Fortunately, that seems all too likely with rumors spreading like wildfire that the French chopped off their King's head in January. 

Nothing like a civil war in Europe to spark the colonies' desires for liberation, Derek expects the orders to come rushing in soon from imperial soldiers eyeing up Saint-Domingue, especially since they recently abolished slavery, and the spiking discontent among the slavers.

He can almost taste the war brewing in the sea breeze.

But until then, he's left with nothing but the occasional decorative blade to make.  Derek's almost desperate enough to help Isaac with horseshoe orders.  Almost.

Instead he goes for a walk.  It's midday, which is not the best time of day to go wandering around the dusty streets with the Kingston sun beating down on him.  He doesn't want to faint like a fancy lady, only for the townsfolk to call on Peter to hire a cart to take him home.  It happened once when he was twenty.  But never again.  Peter still likes to hold it over his head.

He wanders over to the tree line, making sure to bring a water skin with him.  He used to walk this same path through the forest with Laura, the thickly packed foliage only allowing some light to seep through.  He used to trip over fallen rotting logs, and Laura would have a good long laugh at his expense.  He always got her back though, telling on her to their mother when she would remove her dress and wear nothing but small clothes to go swimming in their lagoon.  Their mother would always go easy on her, she used to do the exact same thing when she was younger.

He pushes through the bushes, and startles a few birds out of their hiding places, wandering off the path on his way to the lagoon.  The pool of water is off the simple man made path, and hard to stumble up accidentally, he only knows about it because of his mother. 

By the time he emerges from the foliage he's got leaves and twigs sticking out of his hair, mud all over his shoes, and he's itching for a long cold dip in the slightly salty water.

It's only when he's tugging on the laces of his shoes that he notices he's not alone in the clearing.  A figure stands underneath one of the small waterfalls, running hands through his hair.  Derek's so startled that someone else knows about this place he just stands there like an idiot.  Clothes are scattered carelessly around the bank of the lagoon.  Whenever Derek went in the water, he always made sure to fold his clothing in a neat pile, but apparently this figure couldn't care less.

Instead of calling out to the man taking a dip in  _his_  lagoon, he ducks back into the cover of the trees, curious about the figure, but also half angry that others are disturbing what was the Hale's sanctuary.  He studies the figure, and Derek feels like he recognizes him.  He's turned away, his back facing Derek, white thin scars running all over the skin, and it finally hits him.

Stiles.  That's Stiles' tanned skin that water is running in streams over.  Derek swallows, and his mouth feels dry.

Stiles backs out of the deeper water under the waterfall, until he's standing in mid thigh high water.  Derek studies wide and muscular, yet lean shoulders, flowing down and tapering into a thin waist.  Two divots fascinate Derek, they sit above Stiles buttocks.  He can almost picture fitting the thumbs of his hand into them.  Stiles' ass is as tan as the rest of him and Derek wonders how he manages to walk around naked enough for him to be tan everywhere.

Stiles raises his arms up in offering, water cupped, before he lets it go, and it splashes over his head.  It runs down his spine, collecting in those beautiful divots for seconds before they continue on, trailing through the crack in between Stiles' buttocks.  Stiles shakes his head and water goes flying, glittering in the hot afternoon sun. 

He spins playfully in a circle, splashing and smiling a wide brilliant grin, Derek is distracted by his glee for a second before he feels the need to study his body again.  To see that the dark trail of hair that so fascinates him leads to a mess of tousled hair at his groin, a shade darker than the sun bleached hair on his head.  A soft penis lies nestled, long, but narrow, foreskin hiding the deep pink head.  While Derek hangs heavy, Stiles' cock appears as soft and gentle as he is. 

Stiles' head is thrust up to the sun, hot light beating down on his face, all the while his arms swirl through the water like he is dancing, long fingers stirring ripples.  Derek watches him breathe heavy, his chest lifting up and down in deep breaths.  Stiles lifts his wet fingers out of the water and touches his neck, leaving a trail of moisture over his drying skin.  The fingers move and trace along his collarbone, touching further down.  Stiles lifts his other hand out of the water, and like twins, they traces down his pecs, through that dark trail.  One cups his half-hard cock, the other slips under to roll the balls hanging between his haired legs.

Derek takes in a deep breath.

He feels dirty watching this intimate scene, even though he isn't touching himself as he watches Stiles without his knowledge.  When Stiles moans Derek feels his resolve weakening when the sound goes straight to his cock, making it almost painful in its hardness.  But he preserves, even when Stiles grips his left hand tighter and he strokes along the length, head thrown back is pleasure, groaning and babbling like a whore as he brings himself to bliss, Derek doesn't touch himself.

Stiles takes his right hand off his balls, all the while still pumping his cock, he brings his fingers to the tip, gathering the pre come leaking out, he lazily trails his hand up, over his hips, around to his back.  Derek cannot see what he's doing, his body is in the way, but Stiles has a face of intense concentration on, his tongue caught between his teeth, brows furrowed. 

All of a sudden his body stiffens, then relaxes, sagging.  Several strokes later Stiles is coming, thick puddles of white fall through his fingers into the lagoon, mixing with the water, clouding it, until it dilutes, all evidence washing away. 

Stiles is a picture, chest heaving, as he falls on his back, creating a small tidal wave, floating, limbs spread every which way.

The enormity of what's he's done hits him and Derek feels dirty, like he's soiled Stiles in some way.  He would be furious if he knew Derek watched him like some pervert, and that thought alone is enough to make his erection wilt.  Derek sulks away, still hot, sore, but with no desire to ever return to the lagoon, lest he catches Stiles there again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, I go on Wikipedia to look up the exact month Louis XVI lost his head and get sidetracked (distracted). Hours later I suddenly find myself on a page detailing the history of tulips, reading about a poor sod from the 17th century who ate his lifesavings in the form of a tulip bulb, thinking it was an onion. I don't even have ADHD like Stiles. It's the Wikipedia disorder, and I've got it so bad (so good).
> 
> and other notes:  
> quicksilver = mercury, and was actually used as a effective contraceptive in the past. Effective, as it prevented the women from having children on account of organ failure with a side of insanity.
> 
> If you want to read more about the Kula ring, and the gift giving culture of the Trobriand Islands this https://archive.org/details/argonautsofweste00mali is the paper to read.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for animal mutilation, and epileptic seizure, and past drug abuse.

[Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/117206743147/art-for-with-my-toes-on-the-edge-its-such-a#notes)

 

"What's got your knickers in a twist?"  Peter asks, sauntering into the kitchen where Derek's eating his dinner. 

"Uncle Peter?"  Derek doesn't look at his uncle as he speaks, instead he tears his loaf of bread into smaller pieces, dipping them into spiced coconut oil before slowly chewing and swallowing.

"Yeah, kid?"  Peter asks grabbing a plate from the cupboard.

"Sod off."

"Well I never."  Peter gasps dramatically.  "That's just rude.  It's like I never raised you right."

"You didn't."  Derek snorts, pushing around the crumbs on his plate with a pinky.  "I was the one who had to carry your drunk ass out of bars when I was young.  You didn't spend enough time sober to raise me at all."  Derek loves reminding Peter of his failing as an uncle, for some reason it never fails to make the two of them chuckle.

"Good thing I learned that alcohol is not as effective as opium."  Peter says sarcastically, dropping into the chair opposite Derek.  "Saved you some trouble."

Derek quirks a brow.  "You have a strange definition of good."

"Boy, laudanum is the definition of good."

"God, Peter, you're not still taking it, are you?"  Derek asks worried, studying his uncle.  The last time his uncle seriously abused opiates he went out on a bender and tried to drown himself in the ocean, claiming Talia and Daniel, Derek's father, called out to him.

Derek knew his mother was Peter's favourite sister, and his father was Peter's role model.  He chose to live with them, apprenticing under his father, instead of getting married and starting his own family.  Their deaths hit him hard.  He was as close to Talia as Laura was to him.

"What does it matter.  It's not like it interferes with my ability to work."  Peter shrugs.

"You can't abuse it like you do alcohol."  Derek points out, frowning.

"It helps with the pain."

"Fuck."  Derek pleads.  "Peter, I thought you got over this."

"Relax."  Peter bites into his bread.  "I'm not abusing it, I learnt my lesson.  Besides the doc is watching me carefully, no thanks to you."

Derek snorts.  He trusts Doctor Deaton, if he's monitoring Peter, then he should be fine.

That night when Derek slips under the covers, light from the full moon casting shadows over his room through the open window, he reaches a hand into his trousers, his breath hitching.

He grips his cock firmly, just the way he likes it, the foreskin, moving up and down over the sensitive head as he pleasures himself.  Thinking of abstracts.  Soft skin, pink lips, Derek slowly but surely ruts into his hand, keeping his voice low, so not to disturb Peter.

Eventually his mind wanders away from abstracts into a more directed fantasy.  Derek gasps, biting his lip when he thinks of a mole studded back, covered in thin white scars, gorgeous divots over a firm ass, and a cock buried amongst chestnut hair.

He comes hard with a long gasp, a man's name on the tip of his tongue, and just barely manages to catch his release in his palm.  Shocked with how quickly and unexpectedly he came, Derek climbs out of bed and wipes his hands and soft cock down at the washstand, before tucking himself back into his drawers.

Derek collapses onto his bed and buries his face into his pillow, ashamed, but unrepentant.  He knows Stiles will continue to feature in many of his late night fantasies because of what he saw at the lagoon.

He wakes in the morning to Peter shaking his shoulder.  "Derek, a guard is here, he wants to speak with you." 

Derek shoots up, scared.  What if Stiles caught him watching and reported him?  A cold shiver runs down Derek's spine.  He quickly pushes off the covers, and starts getting dressed, as Peter leaves with a, "Hurry."

He stumbles down the stairs to find a liveried guard, leaning on the store counter top.  He stands straighter when he notices Derek.  "Mr. Hale."  He greets him.  "I'm Jordan Parrish, I'm here to ask you some questions of upmost importance."

Derek nods blankly, as Parrish reaches into a side pouch, pulling out a notebook and quill.  "Do you mind if I use some ink."  He asks, pointing to the reservoir on the counter.  Derek nods again, folding his arms in front of him, as if they can somehow protect him from the accusations soon to be flying around him.  He recognizes Parrish's uniform as belonging to the governor's guard.  This interrogation is not over some common dispute with a customer thinking they've been cheated, this is about Stiles.

Parrish flips to a new page, before dipping the sharpened quill in the ink.  "Okay, first question.  How well do you know Genim Stilinski?"  Derek tries to swallow, but feels a lump caught in his throat.

"He's a good friend of mine."  Derek answers honestly, his nails digging into his bicep.  "And a repeat customer."  Parrish nods, scribbling some more.

"Do you know anyone who would want to harm him?"  Derek's facade drops in the face of that question.

"Is someone trying to hurt Stiles?  Is he alright?"  He asks, so worried, he can feel his brow furrowing.

Parrish smiles reassuringly.  "He's fine, Mr. Hale, just answer the question."

Derek frowns.  "No, Stiles is a good man, I'd be hard pressed to find someone who wants him hurt." 

Derek pauses.  But then, what about those slave owners?  Stiles mentions they hate what he's trying to do.  "What happened that you think someone wants to go after Stiles?"

Parrish looks at him for a few seconds before sighing.  "Someone slit the throat of Genim's favourite dog, and wrote a slur on the Stilinski's front door in the dog's blood."  

Derek's eyes bug open.  "Holy shit.  What did they write?"  He asks, frantic with worry.

Parrish runs an ink stained hand through his hair.  "Something I'm too ashamed to repeat, and I swear like a sailor on a good day, Mr. Hale.  But I'll say it does have something to do with Genim's abolitionist views."

Derek frowns.  "He continuously speaks about a few plantation owners giving him a hard time, especially Jackson's father."

"You mean Mr. Whittemore, yes?"

Derek nods an affirmation.  "Stiles mentioned he saw him in the market a few weeks ago, he said Whittemore spat at his heels."  Parrish raises his brow and scribbles some more in the notebook.  Stiles told him about repeat harassment before, but it's never escalated to something so fierce the authorities had to be informed.  It's always been something minor:  a bad look, or someone mumbling under their breath.  Nobody in their right mind would mess with the governor's precious son.  John loves Stiles, loves him with his whole heart, and would do anything to protect him.  Hence Parrish, going around town questioning people.

"Alright."  Parrish closes Derek inkwell with a snap, blowing on his notebook so the ink can dry.  "That's all I need for now, thank you for your help."  He sticks out his ink stained hand for Derek to shake, and he does, already used to being covered in ink after meeting Stiles.

Parrish lets go, making his way to the exit, before Derek calls out to him.  "Wait!"  Parrish stops, and looks at him expectantly.  "If there's anything I can do, and I mean  _anything_ , please call on me."

Parrish smiles at him, tucking his notebook back into his pouch.  "I'll be sure to let you know if we need your help again, Mr. Hale."

"Great."  Derek smiles back, and Parrish leaves.

"That was interesting."  Derek whirls around to see Peter pushing aside the curtain separating the front of the shop from the back, where he was undoubtedly eavesdropping. 

"Interesting is not what I would call it, Peter."  Derek frowns at his uncle, his hands twitching at his sides.  He wants to go see Stiles now, to check up on him, see if he's alright, but he can't seem so eager.

Peter rolls his eyes, before making shooing actions with his hands.  "Go already, I know you want to see him."

"Will we be okay? It's Isaac's day off, there'll be no one to fill orders."  Derek asks and Peter just sighs.

"I'm sure we can afford to be a bit behind on some nail orders.  Go check up on your friend."  Derek's already walking to the door.

"Well, if you're sure."  Derek doesn't even wait for Peter to give an answer, he just takes off, running through town, like the devil himself is on his heels.

This will be the first time he's seen Stiles since Derek watched him at the lagoon, and he can already feel himself turning a bright shade of red, and it's not because he's running fast.  How can he even look at Stiles without thinking about that?  About Stiles gripping himself tight, as he stroked himself to pleasure in Derek's lagoon.  Fuck.  Once again, Derek is screwed.  But he's concerned enough about someone threatening Stiles, that he pushes the incident from his mind. 

He arrives at the Stilinski residence to find Erica wearing an apron, scrubbing hard at the now slightly pink door.  She stops when she sees him, wiping sweat off her brow before throwing the bristle brush into a sopping pail of lye water.

She quirks a brow as she looks over his sweat covered face.  "I'm guessing Parrish came to speak with you?"  Derek nods, still panting, trying to catch his breath.

She rolls her eyes.  "John told me to let one of the menservants take care of this, but they're all busy, and I didn't want to risk Stiles' curiosity getting the better of him.  Boyd seeing this once was enough.  He's out back with Stiles, taking their frustrations out with swords.  You might want to let them cool down a bit before you go see them." 

Derek nods.  "Stiles didn't see it?"  He asks, looking over the door, he can barely make out any discernable words, but there's enough pink everywhere that he knows they must have used all the blood from that poor dog.

"John forbid him, he knew Stiles would do something stupid if he did."  Erica picks up the brush again, and it drips pink everywhere.  Derek makes a face.

"Need some fresh water?"

Derek carries the bucket to draw from the Stilinski's well, as Erica talks his ear off.

"I'm just glad they didn't chuck poor Roscoe down the well after they slit the animal's throat, although that would've made a more effective message."  Erica states nonchalantly, as if she talks about animal mutilations on a daily basis.  Derek reminds himself to stay on her good side, shuddering as she talks about bloated animal corpses rotting in well water.  He places the bucket under the spigot, and pushes his sleeves up before pumping the handle up and down, fresh clean water gushing out in a rush.

"I guess they didn't want to poison everyone, just send a message."  Derek points out, as the bucket fills.

Erica snorts.  "In that case they did a damn fine job.  Fucking cunts got the whole house in a tizzy."  Derek tries not to grin at her filthy language but fails.  She reminds him of Laura in that aspect. 

The first time Laura swore, she was still a little kid carrying around a doll.  She called a complaining customer an ungrateful cunt when he insulted Peter's craftsmanship on an order just so he could get a discount.  Peter had told her off in front of the customer, sending her off to their room, where Derek comforted her as she cried because her favourite uncle yelled at her.  But, when the customer had left, Peter came up to their room, and brought Laura a slice of coconut cake, along with a kiss on the forehead and a thanks for defending his honor.  Laura had beamed for days after.  Derek smiles at the fond memory as he carries the bucket of clean water back to the front door.

The two of them find Stiles sitting on the front steps staring at the pink wood with a cocked head.  Derek sets down the bucket, and goes to touch him lightly on the shoulder, Stiles leans into the touch.

"Roscoe's father was my mother's dog."  Stiles explains.  "He was one of the only things we had left of her when she died."  Stiles wipes his palm across his eyes.  "My dad and I were going to find Roscoe another beagle to breed so he could have some puppies.  Her favourite past time was breeding and raising hunting hounds, it was the only good thing my gentry grandfather gave her. 

"Roscoe was the pick of the litter, the strongest pup."  Stiles takes in a deep breath, shuddering.  "And now he's gone.  Everything my mother worked for, gone, because some fucker needed blood to write on my door, and a chicken wasn't enough.  He used Roscoe because he was such a good dog he went to investigate the intruder.  What did he get for that?  A fucking slit throat."  Derek squeezes Stiles' shoulder in comfort.  The beagle would always sleep in Stiles' room while he worked, resting at Stiles feet, always begging for those tiny little scratches Stiles would bestow upon him.  A blind man could see how much Stiles loved the dog.

"Fuck.  I hate this shit."  Stiles pushes to his feet, Derek's hand falling off his shoulder, turning to Erica he says,  "Boyd's at the back, he wants to see you."  He smiles faintly at her.  "I think he needs a hug."  Erica nods, sending Derek a look telling him, wordlessly, to comfort Stiles, before wiping her hands on her apron and walking away.  Stiles picks up the bucket of water Derek put down, carrying it up the steps, water sloshing everywhere.  Derek goes to take the bucket from him, but Stiles shakes his head.  "I need to do this, Derek, please." 

"At least let me help."  He pleads, and Stiles relents, handing him a sponge while Stiles takes the bristle brush, and they get to work.

They finish by the time the sun rises, marking it as high afternoon.  The door is scrubbed back to a pristine white, with not even a trace of red or pink in sight.  Erica brings them lemonade, and Derek gulps it down like a thirsty man, wiping the sweat off his brow.

He's studying their handiwork, when Stiles goes up to him, and takes his hand in his, squeezing it, before letting go.

"Thank you."  He says before walking off to presumably find Boyd.  Derek picks up the cleaning supplies, and goes to dump out the pink tinged water somewhere far away from the house.

He's in the Stilinski's storage cupboard, the same one Boyd shoved him into only a week before, putting away the bucket and all the cleaning supplies.  He tucks them behind a bottle of lye, when the governor himself peeks his head in.

"Derek?"  John Stilinski asks, as Derek stands up straighter.  "I wish to speak with you, please follow me."  Derek nearly trips over a broom in his haste to comply with John's request.  Derek trails after Stiles' father, his mind running a mile a minute. 

John opens the door to a room he's never been in before.  Its covered in wood paneling, holding shelves upon shelves of books.  John holds the door to his office open, waving Derek in.  John gestures to a brocade armchair that probably costs as much as a year's worth of coal to run the forge.  "Please, have a seat."  Derek sits, albeit very stiffly.

"Brandy?"  John asks, and Derek shakes his head.  "Very well."  John bypasses the cabinet holding glasses and a decanter full of amber liquid, and leans against his desk, standing only a few feet away from where Derek sits.  Derek nervously fingers his cuffs, wincing internally when he notices quite a few spots of pink dotting the white cotton.  There's nothing like sitting in front of the father of the man he loves while covered in his dog's blood. 

"Thank you."  Derek looks up, his eyes wide at John's words.  John looks sheepish as he scratches the back of his neck.  "For helping my son, but I need to ask you for a favor, and I'll be trusting you with this, so don't go spreading it around, alright?"

Derek nods.  "Of course."  He promises, voice breathy.

"Can you keep an eye out for your customers or anyone with a limp or wounds?  There was a heavy trail of blood leading away from the door, and we have reason to believe Roscoe harmed the vandal before he was killed."

Derek sighs in relief, this is a good thing, it means the person wanting to harm Stiles is close to being identified.  "I will."

"Great.  Now I just need to speak with the Argents."  John says, and Derek knows his face twists into a grimace, he quickly looks away from John.

"Is that all you wanted, Sir?"  Derek asks, unsubtly preparing to get up from the armchair and leave.

John nods, saying a distracted goodbye, and Derek leaves.

Lydia waits outside the study, leaning against the wall beside the wooden door, obviously eavesdropping.

"You heard?"  Derek asks as he walks away, Lydia following beside him.

"Yes."  Lydia frowns.  "But a lot of people hurt themselves every day."

Derek hums.  "How's Stiles doing?"  He asks.  Over time, Derek reached an understanding with her, he no longer cringes when he sees her with Jackson, and she no longer sends him the dirtiest looks to ever grace a human's face.  He could feel his soul being eaten away those first few weeks after the incident in the pantry.

"I tucked him into bed, he's sleeping."  She waves her hand in reassurance.  "I'm thinking of heading to the doctor's, see if anyone's come to him with injuries."

He smiles, impressed.  "Now how come I never thought about that?"  Derek jokes. 

Lydia huffs.  "It's obviously because I'm smarter than you."

Derek shakes his head fondly.  "Which doctor are we visiting?  The good one, or the shit one?"

"We?"  Lydia asks, quirking a brow.

"I'm obviously coming with you."  Derek crosses his arms.

"Obviously?"

"Stiles is my friend."  Derek argues.

"He's my betrothed."  Lydia snaps right back.

Derek raises a brow at that, and Lydia sighs.  "Fine, come along if you must.  And considering Dr. Deaton is the good one, that's self explanatory.  A man who hates Stiles for supporting abolition would not go to a coloured doctor, even though he's the better one."

Derek nods his head.  "Dr. Hampton it is."

***

"I'm sorry, my lady, but no one has come in with any sort of animal bite within the past few days."  Dr. Hampton says as he licks his quill, before dipping it in a pot of ink.

"Okay, how about any sort of lacerations with heavy bleeding."  The doctor frowns at Lydia.

"This is not a proper topic for a young lad-"  Lydia pulls a silver coin out of her purse.  "Let me look at my records, my assistant might have treated the wound."  The doctor smiles, suddenly more helpful, and Lydia narrows her eyes at him.

"You go do that."  Lydia tosses the coin on the doctors desk before leaning against it.  "What do think?"  She asks Derek.  "Is he lying?"

"Why would he lie?"  Derek wanders over to a simple glass aquarium with leeches swimming inside.  He shudders, moving away.

Lydia shrugs.  "Because someone might be paying him more." She looks up as Dr. Hampton bustles back into the room. 

"Jared hasn't treated anyone with trauma wounds either."

Lydia nods.  "Thank you for your help."  She pulls Derek out of the office.

"What now?"  He asks as they walk through the center of town, the sun blazing down on them.

"We talk to Jared, I'm willing to bet the vandal never paid off the assistant.  He must be at lunch since he's not here."  Lydia takes Derek's arm, resting her hand on his elbow as they stroll over to the most popular tavern in town.

They walk into the middle of a bar fight.  A bottle flies in their direction and shatters against the wall only a foot away from them.  Lydia shrieks in surprise, but thankfully seems unharmed when Derek looks her over.  Pushing Lydia behind him, he marches through the cheering crowd and spots the source of the commotion.  Derek rolls his eyes, and claps his assistant on the back of the head.

"Isaac, what the fuck are you doing?"  Derek asks, frustrated.  Grabbing the Isaac by the back of the neck, he drags him away from where he was throwing hits at a considerably older man.

"Come back here you chickenshit!"  The middle aged man shouts, charging at Isaac.  Derek growls and pulls his fist back, decking the man when he gets within arm's reach.  He collapses to the ground in a ball, clutching his broken nose.  Lydia raises her brow, and Derek shrugs.  She steps over the whimpering man, following Derek and Isaac to a booth in the corner.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?"  Derek asks Isaac who just sits down, crossing his arms, looking sullen.

"He's a friend of my father."

"And?" 

Isaac sighs, running his hands through his messy curls.  "He insulted Peter."  Derek sits back, surprised.

"You don't need to defend his honor, Isaac.  That's not your job."  If he had a coin for every time someone called Uncle Peter a drunk fuckup, he'd be filthy rich.

"He's my family, and so are you, Derek.  Defending my family's honor  _is_  my job." 

"Oh yeah?"  Derek smiles at Isaac, chucking him gently on the chin, as Isaac half heartedly pushes him away, grinning.  "Seems you didn't do a good enough job if I had to take care of the bastard."

"Well, I don't have your muscles."  Isaac pokes at his bicep, frowning.

"You'll get there kid."  Derek ruffles Isaac's hair.

"This is touching and all."  Lydia announces, boredom tingeing her voice.  "But we're here for a reason.  Isaac is it?"  His apprentice nods, shy, in the face of a beautiful woman.  "Do you know if Dr. Hampton's assistant, is here?"

Isaac nods, solemnly.  "He's been drinking himself to death because his intended left him for the cobbler's son."  Isaac whispers scandalized.  "It's the talk of the town."  He points to a lonely corner where a slightly pudgy, bespectacled man sits, nursing a mug of ale.

"Weakling."  Lydia scoffs.  "Wait here."  She instructs Derek before getting up from the booth, and walking across the floor, slipping into the chair opposite Jared.

"Who is she?"  Isaac asks his eyes wide as Lydia leans over the table, displaying her cleavage, touching Jared's hand lightly.

"Stiles' betrothed."

"And he's okay with that?"  Isaac questions pointing to where Lydia is now openly flirting with Jared, twirling a stand of red hair around her fingers, laughing at whatever the man says, even as her eyes remain cold and calculative.

Derek shrugs as Lydia makes her way back over to them, Jared staring longingly after her.

"I think he's over the grocer's daughter."  She smirks sliding into their booth.  "But I might've raised his expectations just a tad too high."

Derek laughs.  "You're one cold woman."

"It helps me sleep at night."  She flips her hair.  "Isaac, be a dear, and go fetch me some fried okra."  She places a coin in his apprentice's hand.  "Go buy yourself something nice too."  Isaac practically runs to the counter in eagerness.  Derek snorts, he remembers being that age when he could spend days doing nothing but eating.  One day, Isaac's going to be so much taller than him.

"What did you find out?"  Derek asks after Isaac leaves, leaning closer so he's not overheard.

"Do you want the good news, or the bad news?"

"Good."  Derek chooses, eager to find the person threatening Stiles.

"A man did come to Dr. Hampton with a massive dog bite last night, so I was right.  The good doctor did lie to us."

"What's the bad news?"  Derek asks.

"Jared never saw his face, it was dark and the doctor was working with candle light.  He said he had come downstairs to use the outhouse when he found the office door cracked open, he thought there was an intruder, but when he peeked his head in, he saw the doctor stitching up a bloody dog bite."  She raises a finger, leaning closer.  "But said the wound was on the man's left thigh, which means he should be walking with a limp, if he is even walking at all."

"So we don't have a name, but we have a fairly obvious indicator."

"Exactly."  Lydia says, just as Isaac comes back with a plate of spice fried okra and a plate of roast goat for himself.  Derek raises an eyebrow at Isaac's expensive meal.

"What?  Peter won't cook red meat."  Isaac says as explanation.  Derek knows exactly why Peter refuses to cook any protein that isn't chicken or fish, sometimes he too can't stand the smell of roasting meat, and he wasn't even caught in the fire. 

"Thank you, honey."  Lydia takes the plate from Isaac as the boy blushes, she drops the plate on the middle of the table, and offers Derek some okra while Isaac tucks in, ignoring the vegetables.  Derek smiles gratefully, he's been hungry since they walked into the tavern.  As he bites into the vegetable, he cringes when he finds it slimy and not crunchy like the way Peter makes it, but he finishes a few more fingers just to be polite.

They head back to the Stilinski house after eating, Isaac having run off after spotting one of his friends.  Once again Lydia rests her hand on Derek's arm, and Derek tries not to walk too stiffly, he's not used to escorting a lady around town.

They've been walking in silence since leaving the tavern, but Lydia breaks it first.

"You need to speak to Allison."  Derek, startled, tugs his arm out of her grip and she relents, letting go.

"Excuse me?"  He asks incredulously.  She has no right, absolutely no right.

"Derek, I lost my whole family in a storm during a routine crossing of the Irish Sea, I'm familiar with loss.  It gives you the right to be sad, to be angry."  She turns to him, stopping him from walking away with a hand on his chest.  "What it doesn't give you the right to do is blame innocent parties.  Allison was seven years old, just a child, when her favourite aunt murdered a whole family in cold blood.  She is as much a victim as you are.  She lost her innocence that night, same as you did."

"I don't owe you, or her any explanation for the way I act."  He hisses, pushing past her.  "Leave it be."

"She is the kindest woman I have ever met, and doesn't deserve to be hated for something she didn't do."

"What do you want me to say to her, Lydia?"  Derek spins around to face her.  "I forgive you?  Let's be friends?"

Lydia growls.  "The whole point is that there is nothing to forgive, she did nothing wrong."

"She knows!"  Derek exclaims.  "She fucking knows who did it, and she along with that whole family is protecting them!"

"What do you mean?"  Lydia asks, brow furrowed.  "Kate-"

"Kate was with me when the fire was lit, she planned it, but someone else did the deed, and Gerard stopped Kate from saying who.  The Argent's know, and they're protecting the arsonist."

"That just means Gerard knows, not the whole family."  Lydia argues.

"Whatever."  Derek walks away, but Lydia grabs his wrist.

"No, we are talking about this.  You've been going about this all wrong.  Once all this shit is sorted with Stiles, we will help you get to the bottom of this, Stiles will help you, I will help you, fucking everyone will help you.  Derek."  She tugs on his arm, making him face her.  "You are our friend, and we love you, we  _will help you with this_."  Tears flow unhindered out of the corner of his eyes, and he nods.

"Now, come on."  Lydia rests her hand in the crook of his arm once again.  "We have a fucked up dog killer to find." 

They open the now pristine white doors to the Stilinski house to find chaos.  People are rushing everywhere with expressions ranging from worry to fright.  Derek spots Melissa McCall and grabs her by the shoulder.

"What's going on?"  He asks worried.

"Erica."  She says, before tugging out of his grip and rushing up the stairs, Derek, stunned, follows after her, Lydia on his heels.  Melissa pushes through a throng of people, into a room.  Derek grabs a nearby manservant.

"What's happening to Erica?" 

"She's having a fit!"  The manservant exclaims, wide eyed. 

"Someone should fetch the priest, it's a demon!"  The maid standing beside them shrieks, and Derek glares her into submission, it is obviously a medical condition, demons are not real.  He pushes past the people into the room, only to find Erica lying still and unmoving, cradled in Boyd's lap.

"Is she-"  He starts to ask, but stops, gulping.

"She's alive."  Boyd confirms.  "But she hit her head."  He says as he holds a clean cloth to the wound.

Derek turns to Melissa who's busy pulling Erica's undone stays off of her prone body, allowing her to breathe easier, Boyd removes his fine jacket, covering her body, giving her some semblance of privicy from straying eyes.  Speaking of straying eyes, Derek turns around, glaring at the few remained people gathered around the door.  All of them take off, quite a few with strangled 'eeps'.

He crouches beside Melissa.  "Is there anything I can get for her?"  He asks as he sees Erica's fingers twitch as she regains consciousness.  

"Can you bring Stiles?"  Boyd speaks.  "She wanted to tell him something important before this happened."  Derek nods.

"Lydia?  Can you go to the servant quarters, and bring Erica a change of dress?"  Melissa asks, and Lydia nods, going to do what she asked, the why, unspoken but evident.  Derek can smell the urine.  He follows out after Lydia.

He cracks open Stiles' door, and finds the room dark, the curtains pulled.   Stiles lies asleep on his large canopy bed, naked, only white sheets covering his sex.  It's pulled low enough his sharp hipbones are still visible, his belly moving up and down in sleep.  Derek looks away, blushing, but he calls out, hoping to rouse the man without having to touch him, Derek doesn't trust himself with free access to Stiles' soft skin.

"Stiles?"  The man stirs, lightly, smacking his lips, and Derek frowns before calling out louder.  "Stiles!"  Stiles flails, and promptly falls off the bed.  Shocked, Derek rushes closer and helps untangle him out of the sheets.  "Are you alright?"  He asks, pulling Stiles out of the sheets, avoiding looking down at his lap.

"Derek?"  Stiles asks blearily.  "Whaaa?"

"Erica had a fit, Boyd told me to get you."  Derek explains, pulling Stiles up from the floor, before walking over to a nearby armchair where he finds clothes.  "Here."  He thrusts the clothing at Stiles, turning his back as the man dresses.

"What's going on with Erica?"  Stiles asks, and Derek turns back to him.

"Come with me."  He leads Stiles back to the room, where he finds Erica sitting in an armchair with dark circles around her eyes, wearing new clothes, Boyd's jacket still wrapped around her shoulders.

"Erica?"  Stiles kneels on his knees in front of her, and takes her hand in his, worry in his voice.  "What happened?"  Erica smiles weakly at him.

"My memories, Stiles, they came back."  Stiles eyes widen at her words.

"That's wonderful!"  He exclaims, he looks around the room to somber faces.  "That is wonderful, right?" 

"Depends on your definition of wonderful."  Then Erica says.  "I remember my name.  It's Reyes."

"Reyes."  Stiles takes a long deep breath.  "As in the de los Reyes.  You're fucking royalty, Spanish royalty.  Oh fuck." 

Erica crosses her arms, and smiles before rolling her eyes at Stiles.  "You're overreacting."

"What if Spain wants to declare war on us because they think we've kidnapped you?  I'm going to start a war, oh my lord..."

Erica places her whole hand on Stiles face, cutting off any further remarks.  "Shut up, Stiles.  My family is only distantly related to the Bourbons, I'm hardly royal, my father was nothing more than a Caballero, a Knight.  Your grandfather is an Earl, technically you have a higher title than me."  Derek chokes, and Erica turns to him with a raised brow.  "What?  You didn't know, he's Lord Genim of house blah, blah of blah blah blah, of blah."  She snarks, and Derek grins, even physically weak, this woman is still strong.

Stiles snorts.  "Eloquent as always, Erica."

"As if you remember your own title."

"On the contrary my grandfather made me say it every day at breakfast for years, and now I can never forget it.  Shall I tell you, Lord Genim of house-"

"Please don't."

"This is sweet and all."  Melissa interrupts with a fond smile.  "But I need to ask, is this your first fit?  I've seen this happen to some children in the village before, so I know how to help."

"Far from it."  Erica says bitterly.  "It's the reason I left Spain."  Erica explains.  "My father is a very religious man, he believed my fits were caused by possession, he often had the village priest come by attempt to 'exorcise' me."  She shudders, obviously recalling horrible memories.  "Eventually he sent a letter to the bishop and convinced him to come and do a better job, but my mother heard rumors about all the other people this bishop had exorcised, and most of them were dead.  She paid my fare on the  _Santiago_ and arranged, in secret, for me to go live with some relatives in New Granada, but as you know the ship wrecked, bringing me here."

Stiles squeezes her hand, and Erica smiles at him.  "I can arrange for you to be sent to your relatives, if you want?"  He asks, and Erica shakes her head.

"I am so much happier here."  Boyd rests his hand on her shoulder.  "I'd rather live with people I've grown to care about, than those who share only a blood relation to me, besides it would be difficult for my father to reach me here, if he would bother to, I am but the ninth child among sixteen.  I am easily replaced."

Stiles grins toothily.  "For him, maybe.  To us, you're pretty darn special, Erica of Reyes."  He winks at Boyd, and the man ducks his head, blushing.  "Pretty darn special indeed."

Erica brings Stiles' hand up to her mouth before pressing a soft, friendly kiss to the back of his hand, before turning to Melissa.  "So you say you can help me?  No doctor has been able to help before."

Melissa nods.  "I can help.  There's a plant, grown mainly for hemp fiber production, but if you smoke its flowers like tobacco, it should reduce the severity and duration of your fits.  I can acquire some from Dr. Deaton, he grows a strain of cannabis ideal for medicine."

Erica gapes, bearing a look of wonderment.  "Thank you."  She exhales.  "Thank you so much."

Melissa smiles at her.  "It's no problem at all, honey.  I'll go talk to Dr. Deaton today."

Eventually Boyd bundles Erica off to her bed, making sure she gets rest, and the rest of the group disperses, but not before Lydia grabs Stiles' hand, tugging him off to his room, indicating Derek should follow them. 

She closes the door behind them, before sitting demurely in Stiles' chair, Derek pulls up two armchairs, and pushes Stiles down into one, taking the other one.

"What's going on?"  Stiles questions, his brow furrowed.

"Derek and I found some clues on the vandal."  Lydia says, and Stiles' posture sharpens, his full attention drawn to her.  "He paid off Dr. Hampton, so we don't know his identity, but the doctor's assistant saw a glimpse of the man and said the vandal should be walking with a limp from a bite to his left thigh."

Stiles hums, tapping a long finger against his mouth.  "I'll talk to some trusted folk around town and ask them to keep an eye out."

"And don't forget to tell Scott."  Lydia points out, and Derek nods, agreeing.  As the assistant to the Harbour Master, Scott McCall has an all seeing eye over all that goes on at the docks.  Everyone visits the docks; whether it be to pick up shipments or send a letter by an shipping vessel, the vandal would have to drop by the docks some time or the other.  Especially if he was hired by a slave owner, as Derek suspects.

Stiles nods his head, and Lydia rises from Stiles' chair.  "Be careful, Stiles.  If you go anywhere make sure you either bring someone, or you go armed.  I'm sure Derek won't mind babysitting you on his days off."  Derek watches Stiles turn slightly pink, and duck his head.  Derek blinks.  "I'll talk with Jackson, maybe one of his siblings knows if his father is involved."  She sweeps out of the room, a breeze in her wake, leaving Derek alone with Stiles.

Derek fixes his eyes on Stiles, who looks up, staring right back.  "Will you be okay?"  Derek asks, worry tingeing his tone.

Stiles smiles warmly at him, and reaches out, taking his hand, squeezing it.  "I'll be fine, you'll see."

***

A week after Roscoe was killed and left on Stiles' front porch, Derek walks back to the forge, carrying a new roll of canvas from the tailor.  He ran out of the cloth a few days ago after wrapping up a naval officer's brand spanking new sword.   He had just managed to catch the tailor before he closed for the night.  So now, with the sun set, and the moon only visible to guide him, he walks along the road by the sea.

He's humming along to a tune his father used to sing while he'd beat metal until it too sang, when he hears a commotion by the beach.  Turning his head, Derek spots three figures splashing around in the ocean, yelling and romping.  He snorts, rolling his eyes at people's childishness, almost turning away until one of the figures shift and Derek sees a prone fourth lying still as death in the ocean, waves beating down on them.

Shocked, Derek just stands there for a few seconds, only startling into motion when someone punches and kicks the prone figure.

"Hey!"  Derek calls out, startling the figures, he can't see too well in the dark with only the moon to provide light but they notice him scrambling down the embankment, dropping the roll of canvas, running towards them in fury.  "What the fuck are you doing?!"  He runs faster, and the figures take off.  One has a noticeable limp, and Derek stares after the man, mind reaching conclusions, before deciding that the well being of the figure in the water is more important. 

Derek jogs towards the unmoving man, pulling them out on to the beach by the arms.  The figure is unresponsive, and when Derek drags him onto sand, he gasps when he recognizes his face.

Stiles.

Derek roars in fury, vowing to rip the heads off of those men for doing this to Stiles.  He collapse onto his knees, placing his hand against Stiles' neck, feeling no pulse.  Opening Stiles' mouth, he checks if there's anything like a gag blocking his airway, but finds nothing.  Derek's hands shake as he places them on Stiles' chest, between his pecs, leaning his full weight on the younger man, and begins compressions.

"Come on, Stiles.  Wake up."  Derek viciously pumps his hands up and down on the younger man's chest, trying to force his heart to restart.  He bends his head down, pressing his ear to Stiles' chest hoping to hear something, anything.

He hears nothing.

"You fucking shit!  Don't you fucking do this to me!"  Derek lifts his hands over his head, clutching them together into a fist, and brings it down to Stiles' chest.

"Come on!  Fucker."  He pounds his fist down again and again, the force of the motion, violently shifting Stiles forward in the sand with each strike.  He only sits back on his heels when he sees blood trickling its way out of Stiles' mouth. 

"No.  You can't do this.  Don't you fucking leave me now.   _I love you_."  Derek feels his voice crack when the confession passes his lips, but it is what it is.  He loves another man.  He's an abomination, and this must be his punishment.  Retribution from the God he'd forsaken the day he interred his family's charred broken bodies in the cold ground.  Of course he'll lose the one person who makes him alive again, of course that would happen, he deserves nothing better. 

Derek presses his face into Stiles' cooling neck, tears running unhindered down his face, as he breathes in the scent of saltwater, and sweat.  He will never again smell the scent of old paper and ink clinging to this man's skin, and it breaks him.

Until he hears it.

A breath, almost indiscernible over the roar of the waves.  Derek places his head back on Stiles' chest, and there it is.  A heartbeat.  Weak, but there.

And then Stiles coughs and draws in a ragged breath.  It sounds painful and horrid from Derek's position, but makes him happy regardless because  _Stiles is_   _fucking alive._   Derek gets further confirmation of life when Stiles beings throwing up.  Quickly Derek turns him on his side, as he starts dry heaving, nothing but salt water coming out of his mouth.

Derek studies Stiles' face, unmoving and unconscious, Derek figures that might be better when he sees the deep purple bruises developing on the pale skin where Derek did compressions.  He knows he broke some of Stiles' ribs, but he cannot find it in him to care now that he's breathing again.  Derek delicately picks Stiles up and gently carries him back into town.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberation with the history of cannabis, so let's pretend Deaton cultivated Charlotte's Web (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlotte%27s_Web_%28cannabis%29), a strain of medical cannabis with hardly any psychoactive effects, perfect to help people suffering from epilepsy.
> 
> I don't recommend doing chest compressions like Derek does. I just heard about this story of a doctor who was playing tennis with a friend when his friend had a heart attack and he restarted the man's heart by beating down on his chest. If I tried something like that, I doubt I'd do anything but break someone's ribs and get sued, so don't try this shit at home.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you like!


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